Page 134 of Hush
“I recognized voice. Vadim Kryukov is very famous dissident in Russia. His hatred for Russian regime, and Russian president—Putin before, Vasiliev now—is well known. I suspected it was him. I looked up videos online. Many, many speeches he has made, in Russia, and here. It was him. It was obvious.”
“And, did we ask you to listen to voice samples and identify the one that matched the voice you heard on the phone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the identity of the voice you said matched the voice on the phone?”
Desheriyev pointed to Kryukov. “I know his voice. Again, I know it immediately.”
Ballard nodded. He turned back to the prosecution table and came back with a blown-up photo on a poster board. “Entering into evidence Exhibit fifty-three. Photo of the cocaine baggie found in Mr. Desheriyev’s apartment.”
Tom nodded. “So entered.” Ballard passed the oversized photo to the bailiff, who handed it to the jury.
“Mr. Desheriyev, do you recognize the item in the picture?”
“Yes. Is empty cocaine bag from dead drop.”
“Did you ask for the cocaine?”
“No. I complained. I was very frustrated with how long operation is taking. I was unhappy being here. I do not like America. I wanted to leave. He said he give me something that make me feel better. That I should go to dead drop at the Union Station. The lockers by train platform. Something would be waiting for me.”
“And you went there, and picked up the cocaine?”
“Yes.”
“What else was in the locker?”
“Maps of U.S. Capitol. Schedule for Russian president at the Capitol. Road closures. A march permit, showing where the march was allowed to and not go, based on the president’s movement.”
“A march permit. The same march that Mr. Kryukov was seen at, and was demonstrating at on the National Mall on the day of the shooting?”
“It was apidorthing. Gay thing. Lots of rainbows.”
The courtroom murmured, scowls and whispers and glares all mixing together. Tom’s heart clenched, and his breath shorted out. His lips moved, soundlessly, before he found his voice and called the court back to order. A part of his soul felt singed, though. Casual indifference to something so meaningful, so deeply fundamental to Tom’s identity. He felt like his entire existence had been swatted like a fly, an irritation.
“That would be the same march. Pride in DC, in June.” Ballard’s voice was cold. He headed back to the prosecution table and grabbed another evidence board. “Entering into evidence exhibit fifty-four through fifty-six. A cell phone, cellular phone records, and photos.”
“So entered.” Tom caught Mike’s gaze, and spared a tiny, hidden smile.
Ballard kept going. “Mr. Desheriyev, can you identify the cell phone pictured here?”
“Is my own.”
“And you communicated with Mr. Kryukov on this phone?”
“Yes.”
“He would text and phone you from multiple different numbers, each authenticated with the code six-two-one?”
“Yes.”
“Is this a common practice in your line of work? Using burner cell phones, constantly rotating the numbers being used, authentication codes to verify the messages?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t think this was unusual?”
“No.”
