Page 120 of Hush
“And, did you know that the protestors were demonstrating against Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev’s human rights abuses against the LGBT community?”
Agent Payne’s face darkened. He scowled, averting his gaze from Renner. “No. I did not.”
“Pass the witness, Your Honor.”
Ballard jumped up. “Redirect.” Tom nodded, and Ballard headed for Payne. Payne seemed to relax, just a touch. He and Ballard were friends, one of Ballard’s many friends in law enforcement. “Agent Payne, you say you saw the defendant at the protest at the Capitol that afternoon?”
“Yes I did.”
“Would you describe his behavior at this protest?”
“Combative. He was screaming at the Capitol and at the Russian president. Inciting the crowd into a fervor. The Russian security agents were very concerned.”
“Why were they concerned?”
“Because the defendant shouted in Russian, ‘I want to watch you die, you motherfucker.’”
Ballard’s eyes went wide, a show for the jury. “Wow. A strong statement. When did he say this?”
“Moments before the first shots were fired.”
Ballard clasped his hands together, pausing, letting it sink in. “The state enters into evidence cell phone video footage of the protest showing the defendant’s actions. A transcript of the video is also provided.”
Tom looked over the evidence sheet on his bench. It listed the evidence the prosecution was going to enter into the trial, with transcripts and photographs stapled behind the cover sheet in a binder. He waited, counting to three, giving Renner a moment to object. Nothing. “Exhibit 5, A and B are entered.”
Special Agent Lucas Barnes helped roll out a large flat-screen TV on a wheeled cart. A portable DVD player rested beside it. “We will now play for the court the cell phone footage of the protest.”
Panic washed down Tom’s spine. He’d been there that day, with Mike. Would the cell phone camera capture him? Would he be exposed in the next minute? There would be questions. Why hadn’t he recused himself if he was a witness to the crime? The whole world had seen the replay, and he could form an argument about why he should be allowed to sit as presiding judge, but that argument would hold more weight if he’d been forthcoming in the beginning of the trial. Not after he was found out. But, to admit he’d been there would be to admit why—that he’d been attending a Pride march and rally. And he hadn’t been ready to admit that, then.
The lights dimmed, and the screen flicked on. The footage was frozen on a crowd, a mass of people and shirtless torsos and rainbow flags, posters and placards and waving arms.
Ballard pressed play.
Shouts thundered through the courtroom, bellows and chants from the protest. “Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Vasiliev has got to go!” “Gay is not a crime! Gay is not a crime!” “Human rights abuser!”
The camera panned, showing Kryukov in the center of the frame, hollering into his megaphone. His voice cracked, but he kept shouting, spitting fire and fury. The crowd rose with his cries, growing louder, more enraged. On the Capitol steps, tiny in the camera lens and in the distance, the Russian president walked slowly toward them, waving.
Furious Russian broke over the speakers, guttural and choked with rage. Closed captioning appeared on the screen, a translation. “I want to watch you die, you motherfucker.” Kryukov flipped the Russian president off.
Two shots snapped, cracking over the video and the courtroom speakers. Reporters and visitors gasped. Flinched. Looked away. The camera panned to the Russian president’s effigy, which had collapsed to the ground. Shrieks rose, panic-filled wails and voices crying out, shouting that something had happened on the Capitol steps. The image shifted, dropped, and then changed to dirt and grass and running legs as screams of fear poured through the speakers.
Ballard cut the video.
Tom sat back and eyed Renner and Kryukov. Kryukov looked dead ahead, his jaw square, chin held high. A proud man. Renner scribbled notes, the lawyer’s version of circling the wagons without appearing weak.
The jurors stared at Renner and then at Kryukov. Twelve pairs of eyes made Kryukov squirm.
The guilty always squirmed.
A defense attorney’s sole job was to create a theory that could carve doubt in jurors’ minds. A theory that could be built in increments, in grunted admissions or slices of weakness culled from witnesses, eviscerations bled out on cross-examination. A theory built from pinched eyes and frowns, and a slowly-growing belief that maybe the defendant didn’t actually do the crime. The theory could be right or wrong, based in fact or fantasy, or anything else. It only had to work. It only had to plant that seed of doubt.
So far, watching the jury, Renner had lost every point he’d gained that morning. The jurors gazed at Kryukov with hard eyes, eyes that looked ready to kill. This was the first death penalty trial at the federal level in years, but these jurors were ready for it. Hungry for it. If they found Kryukov guilty, they would execute him.
Renner’s theory wasn’t working.
Dr. Jacqueline Sparks, Medical Examiner, took the stand next, admitting a mountain of evidence to go along with her testimony. Renner glowered through her swearing-in, and then sat on the edge of his seat, ready to spring at the first hint of an objectionable statement.
Renner was against her entire testimony, and had argued vigorously in sidebar, out of hearing of the jurors. “The defense does not dispute the facts of death, Your Honor. Not the manner of death, or the means to carry out the murders. I will remind you, theactualmurderer is part of the government’s case against my client, who did not pull the trigger and kill any of these individuals.”
