"No."
"Or her right wrist was dislocated after being repeatedly struck by your nightstick?"
"No."
"She didn't tell you she had terrible pain in her ribs and three were broken?"
"No."
"You didn't see the teeth you had broken out?"
"I did no such thing."
"Who did these things then?"
He learns back in the witness chair and tugs at his black necktie. "I have no information regarding your allegations. This is unknown by me."
"Yet you obtained her signature on her confession, did you not?"
"I did."
"And the reason we know it was you is because your signature is on the confession as a witness. Did you witness her signing the confession?"
"I did. She looked fine to me."
"So when she reported to the hospital and was kept in intensive care for three days after her release you're telling this jury that those injuries weren't of your doing?"
"I'm telling you—I say no."
"Now Mr. Vasilov, we've all heard about the terrible abuses the FSB commits at Russian jails and prisons. Do you know what I'm referring to, sir?"
"I don't know about this."
"Mr. Vasilov, look over at the jury and tell them you're speaking the truth. Look them all in the eye and tell them you're not lying."
"Objection!" cries the judge. "The witness will do no such thing. This man's word is gold in my courtroom, counsel. You will refrain from such ridiculous requests as that."
I'm on my feet. "What, judge, it's improper for me to ask the witness to look at the jury? To look at the jury and swear he's telling the truth? Where's the harm in that?”
"Sit down, counsel! Your attitude with this court is beyond contemptuous. It is criminal and if it happens again you will find yourself behind bars with your clients."
I can feel Van tugging at my sleeve. "Sit!" he commands me, just audible to me and maybe the prosecutor. "Do you want to go to jail?"
It comes back to me in a rush—the nightmare I've been living since coming here. I'm not in an American courtroom with all the rights and privileges and rules guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution. I'm in no-man's land where any kind of judicial whimsy is possible. He very well could throw me in jail. I consider this fact, and I decide that I'm not afraid of going to jail, the hell with it. But then in the next instant I remind myself that I'm defending my son and his partner and I have no right to abandon them to the court system just to prove my own petty point. So I sit down and stare at the table top. Then the judge speaks.
"Well?"
"No, sir. I don't want to go to jail. Please accept my apologies."
"Accepted. Were you finished with the witness?"
"I was finished."
"Very well, the witness is excused. Mr. Prosecutor, please call your next witness."
Chapter 32
Michael Gresham
The prosecutor calls Henrik Nurayov. I stand up to stretch while the clerk goes out to fetch the witness. I shiver all over. It is still very cold inside the courtroom. The judge looks at me askance. He says, through the translator, "Mr. Sakharov, do you need to take a break?"
I'm surprised. This man hasn't given me a break, ever. Now he wants to know if I need anything? I look around before I make my response. Something has definitely buckled the mood in here. But I don't know and can't guess what it is. So I shake my head. "No," I say unconvincingly. "I'm fine, thanks."
The judge speaks again to the translator. She turns to me and holds her hands out palms up and shrugs. The universal, "I give up," sign. I only stare at her. This is how it goes; most of the time I have no idea what is being said or what someone's intentions are. It is a mistake for me to be here; a huge mistake, but there's no turning back. I look down at Antonia. She rolls her eyes and shrugs. Two shrugs and one eye roll. For the love of God, someone tell me what all this means. Am I the only one who doesn't get it?
Then Nurayov comes hurrying down the aisle and everyone turns to look. He is a key witness and the jury takes note. How do they know such things? Does my face betray the strong concern I have about this witness? Can these jurors read it in my eyes? I sit back down and busy myself at my table. My intention is to telegraph to the jury that I consider this new person inconsequential, someone I probably won't even bother with. Still, I'm afraid the jury perceives otherwise.
Nurayov is sworn and seats himself in the witness chair. He looks out at the jury and sends them a nod and brief smile. At least two of them nod back. One of them includes a smile with her nod. At which point I'm feeling frightened, that maybe there is more here than meets the eye. Then Nurayov tosses off a very friendly wave and smile to Antonia Xiang, his sister-in-law. She doesn’t respond in any manner.
Questioning begins by prosecutor Gliisky. First he leads the witness through the preliminaries: name, address, employer (he works for the British Embassy, he claims), and the like. Then Gliisky moves the focus to Christmas Eve just past.
"What were you doing on Christmas Eve? Please start with your actions following work that day."
"Well, first I stopped off with a friend from work for a drink. I had two vodkas, quite watered down, over about a two hour period. Then we said good night and I went to my car."
"What were you driving?"
"A Volvo. Not a new car; something I've had for a dozen years."
"Where did you go?"
"I picked up a woman who was to join me at home that night for dinner. We then drove out to my dacha north of Moscow."
"Was anyone else there when you arrived?"
"Yes. The embassy had provided me with bodyguards because I was handling a large sum of money."
"How could the bodyguards help?"
"As you know, the kidnapping of diplomats and state department workers has become very prevalent around the world. The guards were there to keep me safe in that regard."
"Did any of them follow you home that night?"
"I think so but I'm never sure. They don't announce it to me or anything."
"Take us through the events that followed your arrival at home."
"Certainly. We pulled into my driveway and entered my house through the front door. Several guards greeted us and then gathered themselves in the family room, giving my guest and me space in the living room. My cook was cooking a stroganoff dish with vegetables and the place smelled delicious. Once we were in the living room, I poured drinks for us. She was drinking gin and tonic; I again had a vodka. I'm not much of a drinker so I usually use one-half the measure of vodka bartenders might typically pour. We then sipped our drinks and engaged in small talk. The woman worked at the embassy with me and we had no end of things to discuss."
"Such as?"
Nurayov smiles and almost chuckles. "Gossip, mostly. Office gossip—who's going out with who, do we expect pay raises in the new year—that sort of thing. We were going over the plans we had for vacation time from our work when suddenly one of the guards came into the living room and whispered that I should follow him, that someone was breaking into the house through the rear sliding door. I was stunned; no one had ever tried this and it happened without any warning or prior threats. With my guards standing there with their guns drawn, the intruders were about to step inside though the hole they'd made in the glass. Then they came into my home, Russell Xiang and Anna Petrov. I spoke with them and told them they would be arrested. Then two guards suddenly thought I shouldn't be in the same room and they grabbed my arms and hurried me down the hall to my bedroom. My guest accompanied us. They then left us there alone. We waited for a good fifteen minutes or so, then we heard gunshots. At that point, my guest and I ran for the front door of my house, then outside we ran for my car. We spun the tires coming all the way around the circular drive and then we were gone. We then could hear many gunshots back behind us at the dacha. We had no way of knowing what was happening, of course, as we made our getaway from there."
"Where did you go?"
/>
"One other thing. I saw the intruders' Lada parked inside a nut grove just down the road when we went by."
"All right. Where were you going when you left?"
"The only place we knew to go: the embassy. We showed our ID and went up in the elevator and adjourned to my office. Then we waited after I had notified the director that we were there."
"What happened next?"
"The embassy has short-term stay facilities. We finally both went to bed in separate rooms and slept until just before dawn, when the embassy officials awoke me. My house had been blown up, I learned. So I went to a hotel and my guest went to her home. I then remained at the hotel for the next two days while my nerves settled down and the investigation was carried out by the British officials. What a night; one I'll never forget."
"Have we left anything out?"
"No, it's all been told."
At which point I'm told I may cross-examine the witness. I stand and walk up to the lectern and position myself there so that the jury can see my face and my reactions to what is about to be said from the witness stand. I've always believed that the cross-examiner's role is not only to ask questions but also to react dramatically so as to guide the jury in their perception of what's been said. What has worked for me in America will hopefully work for me in Russia. At least that's my approach.
"Mr. Nurayov, you've told us that your guest was a woman. Are you sure it wasn't a young boy you had picked up from Saint Basil's parking lot?"
The implication was clear. St. Basil's parking lot, at night, is a hotbed of connections between willing flesh and needful flesh. A place where prostitutes male and female offer themselves to anyone.
"That wouldn't be the case. My guest was a female."
"So if a witness came here and said he saw you pick up a very young boy in your car on Christmas Eve he would be incorrect?"
"No, he would be lying. No such thing happened."
"Objection, Your Honor," says Gliisky, suddenly animated and jerking up to his feet. "There is no such witness who will say any such thing. Counsel is trying to imply something to the jury that no one is going to offer as testimony."
"Objection sustained. The jury will disregard all questions about some imaginary boy. Counsel, you are admonished. Stick to the facts, please."
"Your Honor—" I start to reply, but he holds up a cautioning finger to me. I know he is warning me that contempt and jail are in the offing for me should I continue the questions about the boy guest. So I break it off and shuffle my papers at the lectern.
"Mr. Nurayov, exactly what is your job title at the embassy?"
"Investigator."
"What is it you investigate?"
"Applications for replacement passports. People come to us at least once a day saying their passport has been lost and they need a replacement so they can go home to England. I service those claims."
"What do you do to investigate?"
"I have them collect up and present to me all forms of identification they have. I photograph them. I make calls and send photographs of the claimants to a central repository in London where facial recognition software is employed. A decision is then made and I send the people along to the next embassy agent, where they will be given a temporary passport so they can go home."
"Isn't it true you work for MI6, British foreign intelligence services?"
"Not at all. I applied to work there twenty years ago but they turned me down. They turn everyone down."
"You've never worked for MI6 in Russia?"
"Objection, asked and answered. Move that the court give counsel a warning."
"Sustained. Counsel—"—addressing me now—"You are again asking questions that are in no way supported by the evidence—"
"How so?" I cry out. "How am I doing that, Judge? If I don't ask my questions those things never will be in evidence. It's a Catch-22!"
"I have read your Catch-22 book, counsel. That isn't the case here. You have been warned a second time. The third time there will be no warning but you will spend the night in our magnificent Moscow City Jail. You've given me the impression now that you're quite willing for this."
"One moment, Judge, may I consult with my co-counsel?"
"Go ahead. Sixty seconds."
I head back to my table and Van pulls me close. "This guy is going to send you to jail, Mikhail. Give up asking questions about things that weren't testified to in direct examination."
"Seriously?" I ask Van. "I thought cross-examination was unlimited in scope."
Van smiles. "Maybe you're thinking of U.S. courts, Mikhail. Not so, here. We are very limited on cross."
"Oh, my God."
I push away from the table and return to the lectern. Now even my co-counsel has abandoned me. My mind is racing. How am I ever going to punch holes in the state's case if I can't ask questions intended to trip up the witness, to show him for who he really is? I flip through my documents. I have a copy of the bill of lading taken by Xiang from Henrik's bedroom on Christmas Eve after he and Petrov searched. Dare I use it? Or will it only wind me up in jail if I bring up a matter so clearly outside the scope of the direct examination of Nurayov? I take a deep breath. I've never been one to be cowed by what some judge might do. My clients deserve more than my fear; they deserve fearless representation.
I step around the lectern and approach the clerk. In a hushed voice I ask her to mark the bill of lading from Ehrlyich International Shipping as evidence. The translator gives the Russian interpretation to her. She marks my paper and hands it back. Now I'm committed to using the document I have flaunted before the jury.
"Mr. Nurayov, I'm handing you an exhibit that the clerk has just marked. It's written in English so you, a British subject, should have no trouble reading it. Have you seen this before, sir?"
Nurayov studies the document. He flips it over and finds nothing on the back. He turns it back over. He turns it this way and that.
"No, I haven't seen this before."
"Objection! Again outside the scope of direct examination!"
"One more question, Your Honor," I reply. "If I don't connect it up with one more question then I will gladly go to your jail every night for the remainder of the trial."
The judge smiles, something he's never done before.
"I can't pass that up," he says, and nods at me.
So I continue. "Mr. Nurayov, directing your attention to the bottom of the document. There is a signature line with the initial 'HN.' Are those your initials sir?"
"What?"
"Did you put your initials on this document?"
"I don't—I don't remember."
"Well, with the court's permission I've had the document examined by an expert handwriting analyst. If you'd be so kind as to write out today's date on a separate piece of paper and sign it, we can have your handwriting compared to the initials on the bill of lading. Fair enough?"
"Wait," he says, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He is again studying the document. "Wait, I think those are my initials. I think this was a document from work that someone gave me to prove they were in Russia shipping goods but they were really British subjects. Yes, it's coming back, they had lost their passport. A certain man I'm beginning to recall now."
"Really? A man shipping military grade weapons?"
"Yes, it was definitely a man who'd lost his passport."
"And where did the weapons come from and where were they going?"
Nurayov has quickly collected himself and now smiles. "Oh, I didn't go into all that. I think I may have turned the document over to the British security service but that's the last I saw of it. The man got his passport replaced, too, you might be interested to know."
"These aren't weapons that you signed for? You didn't sign this bill of lading by initialing it as confirmation the weapons had been received for shipment?"
"Of course not. That would be ludicrous and I resent the implication."
"Your Honor, the defense moves this exhibit into evid
ence."
The judge listens to the translation. His fingers tap impatiently on his desk top while the translator drones on. Then, "It's already in evidence. Please continue with your questions."
"Mr. Nurayov, the night of the shooting, did you see Russell Xiang on your premises?"
"Yes."
"Did you see Anna Petrov?"
"Yes. I already said I did."
"Were you there to witness any of the shooting you say took place on your premises?"
"I was gone by then. I've said as much previously."
"Isn't it true you knew the defendants before the night of Christmas Eve?"
"Not true. I didn't know them before; I still don't know them now."
"Do you know me, Mikhail Sakharov?"
"Know you?"
"Yes."
"No, I don't know you. I know of you, however."
The bell has been rung. I can't quit now.
"Really? What do you know of me?"
As soon as I ask it I wish I had my words back. But I was left with no choice once he said he knew of me.
"I know that you're a CIA agent, Mr. Sakharov. I also know your real name is Michael Gresham. I also know that you were involved in shooting four CIA agents in Virginia."
I'm stunned. I don't even know where to begin. I sneak a quick glance at the jury, most of whom are sitting pushed back, arms crossed on their chests, glaring at me. Suddenly I'm the enemy, the CIA, whom everyone around the world hates.
But I jump right back into it.
"Strong allegations, Mr. Nurayov, so let's take them one by one. What evidence do you have I'm a CIA agent?"
"I was shown your picture by an agent from MI6. He warned me about you."
"What did he warn you about? That I might cross-examine you?"
"Not hardly. He warned me that you might try to murder me to shut me up from testifying. I've been hiding out these past several weeks so you couldn't locate me."
The sand is shifting beneath my feet and I'm sinking in deeper and deeper. This man is not only brilliant but he's also been brilliantly coached. My esteem for the FSB suddenly skyrockets. I hank goodness when Van hustles to his feet behind me and requests a ten-minute recess, which the judge grants. He flies up to the lectern and takes me by the arm, steering me out into the hall and around the corner into a small conference room. He pushes me into a chair and locks the door.
Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 17
