Page 117 of Hush
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 ofvoir 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 absolutelyzeroproof 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. Donot. 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.
Tom turned to Renner. “Will the defense present their opening now?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Renner stood, adjusting his cuffs. He rested a hand on Kryukov’s shoulder and smiled down at his client. It seemed almost warm, almost friendly. It was entirely an act.
“The United States has suffered a tragic terrorist attack,” he said, speaking as he walked out from behind the defense table. “And clearly, Bulat Desheriyev is responsible. Therearefacts to this case, as Mr. Ballard and the prosecution have asserted. Bulat Desheriyev targeted the Russian president and members of the protective detail assigned to him. Bulat Desheriyev pulled the trigger, murdering four individuals. Bulat Desheriyev wounded and tried to kill Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev.” He paused, frowning, and spread his hands wide. “And now we’re supposed to take his word? Listen to his testimony, and believe him to be a credible witness? Ladies and gentlemen, do not fall forthatcon. Bulat Desheriyev is a mercenary for hire, a thug and a murderer wanted on multiple continents. He’s cut a deal to save his own neck, and is spinning lies for the prosecution.”
Renner gripped the low wall surrounding the jury box, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “This case is far from simple. The evidence against my client is paper-thin. A plot of this magnitude would require a multitude of calls and contacts, would it not? It would require an intense amount of communication. And yet, the prosecution can only bring forth one confirmed text between my client and Bulat Desheriyev. Only one. My client, Vadim, has no history of violence. He has been a man persecuted for who he is, targeted by the Russian government for years, and has suffered at their hands for his identity. Here, now, he is suffering again, painted as a violent mastermind by the governments of two nations and responsible for a heinous crime.
“Vadim Kryukov is a ready-made fall guy. A man with a history of being targeted by the Russian government. A man with no love for the Vasiliev government. A man engaged in anti-Vasiliev, anti-corruption activism. These facts, these aspects of the defendant, points of pride for Vadim, are being twisted and used to support a narrative that just isn’t true.
“Will you convict a man and sentence him to die based on one text, describing public movements that the whole world knew, one fingerprint that is no way connected with these murders, and the dubious word of a serial murderer who is desperately trying to save his own neck?”
Jurors blinked, and swallowed. They scratched notes, looked away. Anything to not look at Renner or face their own discomfort.
Renner smirked for a half-second.
Score for the defense.
“That is all the prosecution’s case is based on, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Two minuscule pieces of evidence and a narrative of hate against Vadim—a survivor trying to make a new future in this brave new world. Mr. Ballard and his prosecution are sadly looking in the wrong place for the perpetrator of these crimes. The mastermind behind this evil act of terror is out there, and watching this trial right now. He—or they—know exactly what they are doing. Throwing an innocent man under the bus. Destroying an innocent man’s life. Letting another fall for their own duplicitous ends.” Renner turned, staring at Ballard.
“Will the true perpetrators of this murder come forward? Will the prosecution do their job and search for the actual murderers? Or will this trial be a miscarriage of justice, and a state-sanctioned murder of an innocent man?” He turned back to the jurors, fire in his eyes. “A man’s life is in your hands, ladies and gentlemen, as is the most important truth we will search for in these days. Your duty is a solemn one. The whole world is watching.”
And with that, he stepped away, nodded to the jury, and strode back to the defense table.
Silence. Pure, devastating silence. Doubt ripped through the courtroom like bolts of lightning, like the Red Sea being rent apart. Jurors stared, wide-eyed, into the middle distance, shifting and breathing unsteadily. Ballard looked down, closing his eyes, and Tom watched him draw his control tight around him, like a knight raising his shield. For all he let loose in Tom’s chambers, Ballard was a tightly coiled viper in his courtroom. Poised, deadly, and waiting to strike at the perfect moment.
