by Tal Bauer
“Mr. Renner. This is Judge Brewer. I wanted to check in on you and your client.”
Silence. Renner clearly hadn’t expected a phone call.
“I heard the news this evening. How is Mr. Kryukov?”
“In surgery.” Renner’s voice was flat. He hadn’t decided how to react to the call yet. “I will know more in a few hours.”
“How does it look?”
“Broken bones for sure. His ribs, maybe. Definitely a badly broken arm.”
Tom closed his eyes. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Renner. Please, keep me updated. You can reach me at this number anytime this evening. I would like to know how your client is after surgery.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’d like to schedule a hearing in chambers tomorrow morning. Does nine AM work for you? We can push back the start of trial.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Renner sighed. Apparently, he’d decided not to be combative. “And, thank you for reaching out. I appreciate it. I was in the middle of a scathing press release, ripping the court a new one for lax security and an attitude of acceptance about violence toward my client.”
“I do not accept what has happened, Mr. Renner. I’m horrified that this took place and I will do what I can to right this wrong. If you’d like a continuance, please prepare a motion for tomorrow morning.”
“Your Honor, my client is an innocent man who has been imprisoned for a crime he did not do. A continuance would keep him detained even longer. Mr. Kryukov wants his freedom. I’m sure you can understand.”
Tom bowed his head. A passionate plea from a defense attorney. How many times had he heard similar words over the years? Every defendant was innocent, until they were proven guilty. And, many were proven guilty.
“As long as we’re not pushing your client too hard.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, Judge Brewer.”
Hours later, Mike dropped by his hotel room and shared everything he’d found out. Rumor was some of the marshals had done exactly what Mike suspected. Kryukov was unaccounted for six minutes in the transfer papers. Six minutes was an eternity at the wrong end of fists and kicks. No one was willing to say for sure that they knew it had happened, at least, not to Mike.
But they’d all seen Mike hanging out with Tom, and Tom had felt the sidelong glances sliding their direction from Mike’s colleagues. Mike had been somewhat of a lone wolf in the marshals, and now, he was even more so. Who would fess up to Mike about a couple of marshals illegally beating up Kryukov in a demented revenge plot against his defense attorney?
They stole a few minutes together, hanging out in Tom’s hotel room doorway. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring Mike into his suite. Around them, doors opened, marshals wandering into the hall to check on them, see if Tom or Mike needed anything. Their attempts to eavesdrop were obvious and unsubtle.
So they changed the subject. Mike complimented him on his tie. Tom flushed. He thanked Mike for lunch, again, and Mike asked what he wanted tomorrow. They grinned at each other, bashful, flirty smiles.
Villegas appeared at the end of the hall, as if summoned. All the marshals turned toward him, their heads grinding on a swivel. “Lucciano!” Villegas beckoned him over, eyes wide. “Lucciano, get over here!”
Mike leaned back, spotted Villegas, and cursed. “I’ll text you,” he mouthed.
His phone rang as Mike stepped back. “It’s Renner. I have to take this.”
Mike nodded and headed toward Villegas as Tom disappeared into his suite. “Counselor?”
“Your Honor, sorry to call this late.”
“It’s no problem. I asked you to call.”
“Mr. Kryukov has two broken ribs, a fractured arm, and a whole boatload of bruises. The surgeon had to put three pins in his wrist.”
Tom exhaled slowly. He’d been afraid it was going to be much worse. This was still bad, but not life-threatening, at least. “How is he doing?”
“He’s sedated. Resting comfortably.”
“Good. I’m glad he is comfortable and out of harm’s way.”
“Well, I’m not so sure of that. I’m not entirely convinced this was inmate-on-inmate violence.”
Shit. “Oh?”
“There was care not to attack his head, his face, or his fingers. Anything that would show obvious signs of a beating.”
“I’d say broken bones that have to be set through surgery are obvious signs of a beating, counselor.”
“I am concerned about my client’s safety.”
Tom stayed silent. Truthfully, he was too.
“I’ll have recommendations for the hearing tomorrow, Your Honor. Thank you for your phone call this evening.” Renner was back to professional, brisk and officious.
“Please don’t hesitate to contact me at my office with any requests you have, counselor. I will see you in the morning.”
Villegas dragged Mike around the corner of the hallway and shoved him face-first into the wall. “What the fuck are you doing, Lucciano?”
Mike bounced off the wall and stumbled. He wheeled on Villegas, his hands clenching. “What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are you doing?”
“Word’s gotten around,” Villegas hissed, “about you asking questions. About Kryukov.”
“Did you know about what happened?”
Villegas cursed.
“Did you? Did you help plan it?”
“No!” Villegas shoved him against the wall again. Mike shoved back, and Villegas slammed into the hotel room door opposite them. “No,” Villegas grunted. “I found out from Winters. He’s shitting fifty cals right now. We’re moving those guys. Tonight. Getting them out of the district and off the eastern seaboard.”
“They’d better be doing missile transport duty in Montana.” One of the marshals’ unsung, unknown duties was guarding the Air Force’s movements of ballistic and ICBM missiles from silo to silo in the wastelands and far-flung nowheres of Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. If you were on missile transport duty, you had fucked up big time.
“Just about.” Villegas adjusted his suit, straightened his lapels. He stalked close to Mike, getting up in his face. “People are talking about you and Judge Brewer.”
Mike didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.
“Running your mouth at your little pet judge about what happened? That’s the kind of thing that gets little boys backed into dark corners.” Villegas’s voice dropped. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? You do not. Want. This shit. Being spread around.”
“And what shit is that, Villegas? The truth about what some jacked-up, law-breaking marshals did? They’re getting off light being reassigned. What they did was wrong.”
“Aren’t you little miss goody-goody.” Villegas closed the final inch separating them. “Don’t make yourself a target, Lucciano,” he growled. “You’re in enough shit as it is.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Villegas didn’t say a word. He stepped back and walked away, rolling his neck as if he were shaking Mike off.
Chapter 34
July 28th
Tom called Mike over to his suite for breakfast. They ate room service together and ran through the day’s security plan, and Mike filled him in on the marshals from the transport team being reassigned. Etta Mae begged for leftover scrambled eggs and ignored her dog food entirely.
“Hopefully they’re on a dirt runway in Montana right now, smelling cow shit and searching for cell reception and hating life.”
Tom tried to smile. “They’re still getting off easy. What they did was a crime.”
“I know. We’ll circle back around to this after the trial. I’ll help you cut through the marshals’ stonewalling and bullshit.” Going against his own agency, turning against the ultra-tight closed-loop society that was the U.S. Marshals. A marshal bending—or breaking—the law wasn’t, unfortunately, an unusual occurrence. A marshal turning against the pack, ratting them out to a judge… was. But it was the right thing to d
o.
Villegas banged on the door, giving Mike the hairy eyeball when he opened instead of Tom. Tom invited him in for coffee, and Villegas downed a full cup in one long go. “All right, are we ready?” He set the coffee cup down and glared. He wasn’t asking.
They moved to the courthouse just like the previous morning, loading up in a caravan of black SUVs for the three-block journey. Mike helped Tom into his bulletproof vest, sneaking in a squeeze of Tom’s hips and a wink and a smile. The protestors were still there, as were the media vans and the hounding reporters.
Mike brought him his coffee and settled in at Tom’s conference table, plucking away at his laptop until it was time for the nine AM conference with Renner and Ballard. Mike lingered as Tom welcomed both men into his chambers, then sent Tom a private smile and headed out.
His radio chirped. “Lucciano, report.”
Villegas. Mike cursed. “Just left Brewer in chambers with both attorneys.”
“Come down to the courtroom. Need to talk to you.”
“Good morning counselors.” Tom’s smile was thin, strained. “We have a serious situation to discuss. First, Mr. Renner. How is Mr. Kryukov?”
“Doing well. He says this was gentle compared to what he’s experienced in Russia.” Renner passed them each a copy of Kryukov’s medical report. Tom flipped through his slowly, reading every page.
Ballard flicked quickly through the pages, and then focused on the photos of Kryukov’s injuries. He frowned. “Your client has interesting tattoos.”
“What does that have—”
“Are you familiar with Russian organized crime rings? Or the tattoos that members of the Bratva, the brotherhood, receive? Russian prison tattoos? Each one tells a story.” He pointed to the tattoos on Kryukov’s chest: a church with three cupolas, and a black capital A wreathed in a dark circle. “These are prison tattoos. They denote how many sentences he’s served. Three, at least. And that he’s an enemy of the state.”
“And,” Tom said, flipping to the next photo. “These tattoos are forced tattoos.” He pointed to a pair of eyes on Kryukov’s lower abdomen, and then to a woman wrapped in a snake on his lower back. A playing card, an ace of hearts, on one ass cheek.
Ballard squinted at him. Renner stayed silent.
“Forced tattoos from when Kryukov was imprisoned in Russia. He is homosexual. He was punished for his sexuality in the Russian prison system. These tattoos were forced on him the day he entered the prison. He was marked.” Tom swallowed. “And then everyone knew who he was. And he was targeted for abuse.”
Both attorneys were quiet. “You seem to know a lot about Russian prisoners,” Ballard said softly.
“I know this.”
“Look, what happened was regrettable, but out of our control.” Ballard shrugged. “Sometimes prisoners get out of hand. We’re not Russia. We don’t force tattoos on people. But fistfights can happen. We stopped it before it got worse. That’s what is important to remember.”
“My client doesn’t believe that the men who attacked him were prisoners.”
“Excuse me?” Ballard frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
Did he really not know? Or was this more covering up? Ballard had become a professional at cover-ups, it seemed. Had it always been this way? Just what had Ballard been doing when they worked together? Years and years at each other’s side, and suddenly, Tom realized he barely knew the man.
“Extrajudicial retribution.” Renner tented his fingers, pursed his lips. “I scored points against your special agent yesterday, and your men took it out on my client.”
Ballard scoffed. “This is—”
“What concerns me,” Renner said, speaking over Ballard. “Is the question of whether or not this was also a hate crime.”
“A hate crime?”
“My client is a homosexual. As Judge Brewer stated, he has been persecuted before for his sexuality. Mr. Kryukov clearly recalls hearing his attackers shout ‘faggot’ as they kicked him in the chest.”
Ballard’s face darkened as he went still. “You can’t have it both ways. It’s either an extrajudicial retribution, or it’s a hate crime.”
“It absolutely can be both.”
“Gentleman.” Tom slapped both hands down on his table. “I am deeply disturbed by what happened. There is no reason—none at all—for a prisoner to be assaulted, in any way. By inmates or by anyone else.” He fixed a long stare on Ballard. Ballard didn’t flinch. “I am also infuriated at the possibility that the attack was motivated by Mr. Kryukov’s sexual orientation. The freedom of an individual to be who they are is a core and fundamental principle of America.” He swallowed hard, fighting against the words.
How free had he been his whole life?
What the hell was going on? He was defending a man who had, by the preponderance of evidence, conspired to kill the Russian president with the help of the CIA. His old boss was helping to cover the government’s tracks, and he was sympathizing with the mastermind of the terrorist attack, a gay Russian who had suffered, but was now making the world suffer through his acts. Sighing, Tom shook his head. “I have ordered that Mr. Kryukov be kept in protective custody at the hospital until he is recovered enough to be transported to a secure facility. I’ve also ordered a new team of marshals to secure his transport. His former team, clearly, failed spectacularly.” Again, he glared at Ballard.
“Thank you, Your Honor. We would also like to ask for a continuance.”
“For how long?”
“Only until this afternoon. Mr. Kryukov wants to put this trial behind him and get on with his life.”
Ballard snorted.
“Counselor!” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I will speak with you privately. Mr. Renner, I’m more than happy to grant you this continuance. I’m concerned you’re coming back to trial too soon. If you and Mr. Kryukov decide you need more time, let me know. We can recess until next week.”
“This afternoon will be fine, Your Honor.”
“Then I will see you at one thirty in court.”
Renner nodded his thanks and quickly packed up his padfolio. He flew out of Tom’s chambers, casting one last, lingering look back at Ballard.
Ballard tossed his pen on the table and leaned back. He stared at Tom, his posture, his entire body, screaming fuck you.
“You are way out of line, Dylan. Way, way out of line. Your behavior is beyond the pale. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve dropped the ‘Your Honor’ business, too. You’re pissed at me for following the law? Holding to the Constitution? Believing in the principals of America?”
Ballard snorted again, laughing to himself, utterly dismissing everything about Tom and his speech. Tom might as well have been talking to a wall.
“If I find out you had anything to do with this beating—anything at all—I will have you brought up on charges. I mean it, Dylan. I will put you in jail for the maximum amount of time that I can.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the future, Your Honor.” Ballard stood, sneering down at him. “You’re doing a fine job of driving this country straight into war. There’s not going to be anything left after this trial if you let Renner and Kryukov run with their wild theory. So, if I can stop you? If I can stop what you’re doing?” Ballard leaned over the table. “You can bet your Goddamn ass I will. Your Honor.”
Tom’s courtroom crackled that afternoon. Reporters crowded even tighter than the day before. New marshals lined the walls, glowering at everyone. Kryukov limped in, partially supported by a beast of a marshal, a giant man with hulking shoulders. He could have balled Kryukov up and dribbled him, but he let Kryukov lean on his arm, as if he were allowing a fly space on his skin. He dropped Kryukov in his seat at the defendant’s table and fled. Renner checked his client over, and Tom watched Kryukov nod and nod some more. There were bruises on the side of his throat, and his arm was in a sling. He sat stiffly. Bandaged ribs.
Ballard never looked at Kryukov. He and Barnes huddled, reviewing notes with the FB
I’s deputy director, who sat just behind them. Big guns were showing up to the trial.
The jury was wired, strung out on mystery and intrigue, caffeine and too many questions. Their minds were whirling, and he saw half of them frown with the beginnings of a headache.
Tom tried to impart a measure of calm. He gazed over the courtroom, his shipwrecked island of doubt and conspiracy. He was the captain of this ship, and they’d gone aground on day one. Swallowing, he gazed at Ballard.
Ballard stared right back at him. His gaze was frigid.
“Counselor. Please call your next witness.”
Bulat Desheriyev’s arrival brought a murmur and a lingering hush of whispers trailing behind him like a rippling wake. Desheriyev was a large man, obviously fit and muscular. He’d worked out before landing in the federal detention center, and was clearly keeping up with his routine in prison. The red jumpsuit strained against his shoulders, his biceps. He had a shaved head, a bulldog face, and dark eyes. He looked like an Eastern European criminal, a hard man spat out by the Russian machine, and a man easily capable of assassinating the dozens of targets he was accused of by Interpol.
Now, he’d confessed to four murders and the attempted assassination of the Russian president, and pointed the finger at Kryukov.
He walked to the witness stand and waited for his escort to uncuff him. He had the right to testify free of shackles, despite his guilty plea.
Desheriyev was sworn in.
Ballard stood in front of him, hands clasped.
He started slowly, building the basics. Who Bulat Desheriyev was. Where he came from—a small town in Chechnya. His service in the Russian army, and his departure from the ranks.
“Did you enjoy your time in the Russian Army?”
“No.” Desheriyev’s voice rumbled, a deep bass growl that ran down Tom’s spine. His accent was thick.
“And after you left the Russian army, what did you do?”
“Went home. Made a name for myself. Jobs were offered. I took them.”
