by Tal Bauer
Mike answered a half-second later. He lay on his back in his own hotel bed, shirtless. He smiled wide when he saw Tom, his eyes glittering. “Hey babe.”
Pure sunshine seemed to drench his soul, a waterfall of joy sliding down his spine and curling in his belly. “Hey sexy.” He spoke softly. They had to be quiet. Marshals were on the other side of the walls.
They didn’t say much, just stared at each other. Mike bit his lip, trying to hold back his smile. Tom traced the lines of his face, the light bursting from his eyes, with his own gaze.
“Thank you,” Mike said.
“For what?”
“Putting up with this. You don’t have to. You could have any guy you wanted. You don’t have to be calling me and whispering like we’re teenagers hiding from our parents. My job… complicates things.” He frowned.
“Only for right now. Just because of this trial. After the trial…” Tom breathed in, deeply. “After the trial, I want to come out. With you. Tell who we need to tell to keep this above board. Winters, Chief Judge Fink, whoever needs to know. So we can do this.”
Mike beamed, smiling so brilliantly Tom thought his face would break in half. He could see Mike’s molars gleaming, his mile-wide Julia Roberts smile lighting up his whole world. Mike wiggled like a puppy, too excited to speak for a long moment. “Okay.”
“Is that all right? I mean, if it’s not—”
“It’s great.” Mike laughed, but buried his face in his pillow, muffling the sound. Only his eyes peeked over the edge. “Are you ready for that?” he asked, pulling the pillow down.
“Yes. I am. I want to be with you. The right way.”
Mike beamed again. “When the trial is over,” he said softly.
“When this is all over.”
They gazed at each other for another long minute, giddy as high schoolers. Until Tom yawned, his jaw cracking as he stretched. “All right. I’m turning into a pumpkin.”
“Get some sleep.” Mike blew him a kiss. “Night, babe.”
He blew a kiss back. “Night.”
The call cut out, and Tom plugged his phone into the charger on the nightstand and rolled over. He bunched a pillow to his chest, pretending it was Mike, and closed his eyes.
After the trial. Two things would happen after the trial was over: the world would be in shambles, on the verge of another war, or it would somehow right itself. Somehow, someway, through the twisted path of this case, through what was about to transpire in his courtroom. He had to believe that it would work out. That truth and justice would prevail. He’d do everything he could, every single thing, to make this right.
He had to. Because after the trial… he was coming out.
Chapter 32
July 27th
The trial the entire world was watching.
That’s what the news said, the perky, bright-eyed anchors reading off their script cards at five in the morning, before dawn’s first light had broken over DC. Tom, in that hyperalert space of too little sleep and too much caffeine, watched the morning news half in and half out of his suit. His tie lay draped around his neck, a sky-blue silk with delicate white diagonal stripes. Mike had given it to him, a present secreted beneath his pillow a few days before. For luck! his note had said, with a lopsided smiley face.
At six o’clock exactly, knocks sounded on his door. He grabbed his suit jacket and his briefcase and headed out, striding alongside Mike and behind Villegas. Villegas grumbled into his radio, communicating with marshals who held down all the exits and entrances, monitored the elevator doors on his floor and the lobby, and waited in the armored SUV in the Hyatt’s basement. Winters was on the line, too, listening in from the courthouse command office.
Mike slipped his hand into Tom’s and squeezed, lightning fast, in the elevator on the way down.
In the basement, Villegas directed four teams of marshals into chaser SUVs, riding as escorts in front of, and behind, Tom. Mike pulled him aside, to the rear of his SUV, and pulled out the bulletproof vest he’d had Tom try on over a month ago.
“It’s time to wear this.”
Tom swallowed, but nodded. He slipped off his suit jacket and let Mike help him into the vest. Mike smiled at his tie, his fingers gently running over the fabric. “This is a level three vest,” Mike said softly. “It will stop small arms fire and sharp objects. The armored SUV is rated to withstand armor-piercing rounds, so you won’t need a level four vest for the ride. And, if anyone has a high-powered rifle inside your courtroom, we’ve got far, far bigger problems.”
“No kidding.” Tom twisted, tried to get the vest to relax against him. It was flexible, a soft vest as opposed to the hard ceramic plates of a level four vest.
“If anyone takes a shot at you, or anything else, they’ll have to get through me.” Mike was close, too close, speaking almost against his skin.
“Are you wearing a vest, too?”
Mike nodded. He rapped on his side, over his ribs. A slight puff pushed out his button-down, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hint of a concealed vest. “Your robes will conceal your vest, and it’s more comfortable for you to wear it over your shirt. You can take it off in your chambers. As long as you promise to put it back on.”
“Yes sir.”
Villegas appeared, looking harried and snappish and sighing at them both. “Are we done yet? What the hell, Lucciano? Are you giving him a history lesson about the vest? Jesus.”
“Yeah, we’re done, Villegas.” Mike slammed the rear gate shut, rolling his eyes.
“Then let’s go, let’s go.” Villegas made herding motions, cursing under his breath. He had his radio in one hand and his coffee in the other, and he drank and spoke at the same time, still muttering curses as he glared at Mike.
Finally, they were on the move, Villegas in the driver’s seat, Mike in the passenger. Tom sat in the middle of the SUV behind them both, in-between completely blacked-out windows.
The drive wasn’t long. Only three blocks. But he instantly understood Villegas’s security concerns as they rose out of the garage, driving into the breaking dawn.
The sidewalks were packed, filled to bursting with protestors. One section of the crowd screamed with anti-Russian fervor, posters and placards with the Russian flag and the Kremlin crossed out, and slogans proclaiming him a tool of the Russians. Images of him, dancing with marionette strings beneath Vasiliev’s hands. Packed on the other side of the street, protestors waved American flags, chanting USA! USA! at the top of their lungs. Beyond the frenzy, media trucks covered every cobblestone of the courthouse square, and satellite dishes rose to the sky like an urban forest. CNN, MSNBC, Fox, ABC, NBC, Al Jazeera, Russia Today, BBC, and so many, many more. DC Metro police were out in droves, lining the streets and enforcing their blockade, stone-faced against screaming, vitriolic protestors. Sun lamps blazed down on the reporters, the combined lights of so many news agencies making the square look like the surface of Mars, and not DC just before sunrise.
He blinked, trying to block it all out, trying to make his eyes unfocus, let the cacophony wash over him. He could practically feel Mike vibrating in the front seat, could definitely see the way he swiveled his head, taking everything in, every angle, every aspect, cataloging every individual as a threat or not. He mentally reached into the front seat, as if he could fold into Mike’s arms.
They hurried into the courthouse garage, tires squealing against concrete. The marshals in the chaser SUVs flanked Tom’s vehicle in case someone might try and follow them into the basement garage. No one did. Mike hopped out first, opening Tom’s door. He snagged Tom’s briefcase, throwing it over his shoulder, and then helped Tom into his jacket.
Villegas was already on the radio. “We’re heading up the central elevator now.” Marshals blocked off the secured elevator to the private areas of the Annex. He stepped in, followed by Mike and Villegas, and then they were off, straight up to the fourth floor.
He checked his phone. It was six-fifteen.
Two hours and
forty-five minutes until the trial began.
The jury was seated first, taking their places in the raised box and settling into the black leather chairs that would be their thrones for the next few weeks. Most had notepads, some had several. All of them looked stern, tense. Frustrated.
The gallery was packed, filled with media representatives, government officials, observers from the Russian embassy, and enterprising members of the public who had slept on the steps of the courthouse to be first in line that morning. The air crackled, far more intensely than at any other trial. This was no run-of-the-mill murder trial, though.
At the prosecutor’s table, Dylan Ballard sat and stared at his notes, so laser-focused on his padfolio that he seemed a statue. Lucas Barnes, the FBI counterterrorism chief, sat beside him, back stiff and straight, flipping through his own notes with an eerie sense of calm.
Renner sat beside Kryukov. Kryukov wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie, but next to Renner, in his black pinstripe, crisp white French cuff button-down, and dazzling magenta tie, he looked boring and sloppy.
Lining both walls, marshals stood guard, their attentions focused on Kryukov and the gallery.
The courtroom was awash in muted conversation, hushed whispers and bitten-off words snapped into cell phones bouncing around the gleaming maple-paneled walls. White fluorescent light burned down on the court, an nearly-silent hum that crawled over everyone. Waiting, waiting.
Mike nodded to the bailiff and ducked out, heading for Tom’s chambers down the hall.
Tom paced, slow, careful steps from one side of his office to the other and back again. The bulletproof vest itched, and pulled on his shoulders. He was hot, already sweating. He’d asked for the courtroom’s thermostat to be lowered. His robes hung open, unzipped down the front until the last minute. They billowed around him, like a vampire’s cape in a cheesy horror film.
Mike held out his hand. “Everyone is there. They’re ready.”
Tom grabbed him. Stepped into the circle of his arms, and rested his forehead against Mike’s. Pressed together, he realized he was shaking.
“You’re going to be great, Judge Brewer.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you stayed with me through this.” He would have collapsed if not for Mike, fallen to the ground in broken shambles, wrung through by the intrigue, the twists and turns, the way his entire court, and the entire country, had seemed to turn their backs on him.
Mike kissed him, softly, a slow meeting of their lips. “The time for justice is at hand.”
They both smiled, and Tom managed a soft laugh. Mike kissed him again. “Lead the way, Inspector Lucciano.”
“All rise!”
Tom took a deep breath before he strode into the courtroom after the bailiff’s cry. Mike followed on his heels and took up post beside his bench, an arm’s reach away.
His black robes puffed out, the dark fabric wreathing him in authority. His voice was the law in these walls. Supposedly. All eyes snapped to him, watching as he climbed up to the bench and took his seat. The Great Seal of the United States hung behind him, framed between two American flags.
All eyes, except for Ballard’s. Ballard refused to look at him, staring off to the side, his face pinched and tight.
A few of the jurors smiled his way. He’d done his usual song and dance, his welcome to the court routine for the jurors right after they’d been seated at the conclusion of voir dire. They were all strung out, exhausted from the jury selection process, and dreading the case to come. He’d done what he could, reaching out to them, explaining their importance, their partnership. By the end, he had a few smiles, and one or two chuckles. But, half the jury stared at him stone-faced, already convinced, clearly, that he was exactly what the media had made him out to be: a Russian sock-puppet, anti-American, and already in the defendant’s corner.
Tom sat. Everyone followed suit. Reporters grabbed their notepads, their pencils. Leaned forward with their recorders. His gaze darted to Mike, for a moment.
And then he leaned forward and laced his hands together. “Mr. Ballard. Are you ready to present your case for the United States?”
Ballard rose, and still didn’t look at Tom as he crossed the courtroom to the jury box. Tom didn’t require his attorneys to stand behind a lectern, or restrict their movement. As an AUSA, he’d thought as he moved, and in the past, sometimes would gently pace as he cross-examined a witness. He watched Ballard stand before the jury, legs spread, hands clasped.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Ballard began, his deep voice rich and rumbling, projecting confidence, clarity, and authority. “We begin presenting a case to you today that, when all the media frenzy has been stripped away, and when all the wild-eyed conspiracy theories have been set aside, is simple. This is a simple, straightforward case, and you should not let anyone convince you otherwise.
“A few weeks ago, we watched in horror as a terrorist struck at the heart of our nation. This terrorist, Bulat Desheriyev, shot and killed three members of our nation’s law enforcement community, Secret Service agents Steven Harvey, Patrick Ross, and Chad Robertson. He also killed a member of Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev’s security team, and attempted to murder the Russian president himself.
“Bulat Desheriyev did not expect to be caught. He had, in his mind, a foolproof escape plan. Something, or someone, went wrong, and he was captured. Mr. Desheriyev has since decided to help the United States and the world, and identify the individual who hired, facilitated, and directed his terrorist actions. That person is sitting right there.” Ballard pointed at Kryukov. “Vadim Kryukov.”
He turned, slowly walking the length of the jury box, looking each juror in the eye. “Mr. Desheriyev asserts that Mr. Kryukov recruited him in Russia, paying him millions of dollars for this hit. He directed Mr. Desheriyev to the United States and provided him information on his target, President Vasiliev.” Ballard let that hang in the air.
“Mr. Desheriyev’s assertions are backed up by the evidence. By facts. Fact number one: Vadim Kryukov sent Bulat Desheriyev a text in the days before the shooting, confirming the Russian president’s schedule and location at the time of the attack. This text came from Kryukov’s cell phone, and was authenticated with the three-digit code Desheriyev had been instructed to use for secured communications. Fact number two: Kryukov’s fingerprint appears on a baggie of cocaine found in Desheriyev’s house and left for him at a drop location arranged by Mr. Kryukov. In that drop, there were maps of DC, highlighted information on the Capitol, and suggestions for locations to use as a sniper nest. Fact number three: Desheriyev picked Vadim Kryukov’s voice out of a vocal line-up as the same voice he heard on the phone. Our evidence clearly shows a connection between these two men, and backs up Mr. Desheriyev’s assertions.”
Tom shifted, slightly. Ballard’s case against Kryukov was not the strongest he’d ever seen in his career, not by a longshot. And, no mention of the Russian documents. How would Ballard defend against them? Tom had expected Ballard to defuse their importance from the beginning, undermine their credibility in some way in his opening statement. So far, nothing.
“Mr. Renner and the defense will spin for you a wild fantasy, a world of conspiracy, intrigue, and deep state cover-ups. His defense is more appropriate for a bad Hollywood film, and is irresponsible in a court of law. He will ply you with bogeymen, paint American officials as evil villains, and do everything he can to inflame an already unstable and dangerous political situation.” Ballard’s eyes slid to Renner, holding his glare. His words were a damning indictment and would be repeated on every news network.
Tom swallowed. Renner’s defense existed chiefly because of his own actions, allowing for the defense to build their case through discovery and admission of the Russians’ documents alleging the CIA assassination attempt. Ballard’s harsh words could easily be fired right at him, too.
“Mr. Renner cannot prove any shred of his deranged theory. He asks you to believe that
Americans masterminded an assassination attempt of the Russian president. He asks you to believe that a shadowy conspiracy of unnamed persons is attempting to frame his client. He asks you to believe in the veracity of documents hand-delivered from Moscow that seem to perfectly fit his fantastical defense theory. But he can offer absolutely zero proof of any of it.” Again, Ballard let his statement hang in the air, his words falling like hammers. “There is no proof, no facts, to back up this imaginative, creative, but ultimately deceptive theory.” Ballard faced the jury box, squared his shoulders, and glared. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Do not. Fall. For this con.”
Unease rippled through the courtroom, a wave of whispers and wide eyes. Opening statements were never so bold. They were roadmaps, dry lines from a thesis paper, bullet-pointed lists of what each side hoped to accomplish. This was a call to war, a crashing of cymbals deafening the orchestra. Ballard had come out with his claws, and was looking for blood.
“Evidence is what matters in this case, ladies and gentlemen. And the evidence clearly points in one direction and in one direction only: that Vadim Kryukov orchestrated the murder of four individuals and the attempted murder of the Russian president. Vadim Kryukov directed the actions of Bulat Desheriyev. Vadim Kryukov is guilty of these crimes.”
Silence, as Ballard crossed the courtroom and sat back at the prosecutor’s table. Lucas Barnes nodded to him, a quiet show of congratulations. And he’d earned it. Tom squeezed his hands together, tried to stop their trembling. Ballard’s opening had been a slam dunk.
Renner had the right to push off his opening statement until after the conclusion of the prosecution’s case. In some ways, it made sense. He could present his opening and go right into his case, take the time to craft a bombshell of his own. Or, he could go for his opener now, and hope to chink Ballard’s armor and his case. Set doubt into the minds of the jury right from the start, before Ballard had a chance to get going and build momentum.
