Page 79 of Hush
Everyone shut up as he leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. The soft chatter of the room died, instantly drying up. Fink breathed in, his breath rasping over his flypaper-thin lips. “A terrible thing has happened,” he began. “A damn terrible tragedy.”
Fink rubbed his thin lips together, looking down at the conference table and shaking his head. He seemed weary, weary of the world and the weight of history. His voice was tired, an old man’s weight in his words, wound through his southern drawl. “I’ve received word from the United States Attorney that Mr. Desheriyev will be brought for arraignment tomorrow morning.”
Silence. Tom shared a look with Judge Juarez.
“I’ve also received a call from the White House. The president is committing massive resources to this trial. He is very, very interested in this case being resolved. He impressed upon me the importance of the trial being concluded as fast as possible. Russia, and the whole world, will be watching this. Watching us.” A drop of spit flew from Fink’s lips, spattering on the mahogany table. “Somehow, this man breached our security and attacked the heart of our nation. Three of our people are dead, and one Russian security agent. The Russian president is being evacuated out of the country tonight.” Fink sighed, and it sounded like he was breathing out every breath he’d ever taken. “I don’t have to remind you that the United States and Russia haven’t been the best of friends lately. This just makes matters worse.”
Only the tick-tock of Fink’s mantel clock sounded through his chambers. Sunlight streamed behind them, illuminating the crime scene on the Capitol steps. Yellow tape fluttered on the breeze and sealed off the west Capitol, the steps, Union Square Park. FBI agents processed the scene, moving between bloodstains and yellow evidence markers.
“I called everyone here to assign this trial. It will be assigned like all trials, randomly.”
In the old days, the clerk of the court would spin a metal cage like a hamster wheel, and balls representing the ranked numbers of the judges would spin and spin. One would pop out, just like a bingo game, and that would be the judge selected. Now, everything was done electronically, bytes and bits that randomly selected each judge for each trial.
“I am recusing myself from this trial. At my age, I don’t buy green bananas.” Fink tried to smile.
No one else did.
“I can’t promise I can see this trial through to the end, and we need a stable, steady hand in this case. Someone who can keep the whole case organized. Keep the courtroom in line. Who can stand up under the intense worldwide scrutiny. This will be the case of one of your lifetimes. You won’t have a larger trial in your career. I swear to God.”
Jesus, Tom did not envy the judge who got this trial. Any of them would hate it, the exposure, the evisceration in the global media. Well, maybe not Bonham. Something like this would only increase his visibility for the Supreme Court. Tom’s palms itched and cold sweat beaded down his back. He smelled fear.
Fink rose and shuffled to the clerk of the court’s laptop sitting on his desk, and the computer program open that would randomly assign judges. All he had to do was hit enter and the program would cycle. A number would pop up, center of the screen, the ranked number for a judge. This time, it would be anyone from two to fifteen. Number one, Chief Judge Fink, wouldn’t be in the selection pool.
“Whoever gets this trial, we’re all in it together. We’ll take your cases that can be transferred so you can focus on this trial. We will all help you, you unlucky bastard. Godspeed, everyone.”
Fink hit enter.
The computer whirred.
The screen flashed.
Giant numerals appeared, screaming from the center of the screen.
15.
All eyes flicked to Tom. Judge Juarez’s thin hand reached for his, under the table.
Number fifteen—the newest judge to the DC federal bench, the baby judge—washim.
Chapter 19
“What the fuck?” Ballard burst into Chief Judge Fink’s chambers, slamming the double mahogany doors against the wooden paneling. “How thefuckdidBrewer get this trial?”
Fink rose at the head of his conference table, staring Ballard down.
Ballard’s jaw snapped shut. He stormed into Fink’s chambers, dropping his briefcase beside the conference table and slamming his padfolio on the dark wooden surface as he sat. He refused to look across the table, at Tom.
Tom had his head in his hands, staring at the polished, mirrored surface. The rest of the judges had left, filing out in silence after the assignment was made. Some looked at him with pity. Others never gave him a second glance, running from Tom like they could escape the whole messy situation. Fink had collapsed into his seat at the conference table with a long, bone-rattling sigh.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t put two and two together. Could not string neurons into a coherent thought. Blind panic had replaced all higher order functions. Pure, unadulterated panic.
This was everything he’d ever feared. Exposure, media evisceration, millions of eyeballs poring over his life, his every moment, following him everywhere he went. Fears fell like drenching rain, and he tried to swim out of the rising tide before he drowned. Mike, the choices he’d started making, planning for his eventual coming out. Kissing Mike two days ago at the volleyball game. Being introduced as ‘Mike’s new man’ at the bar. Jesus, Silvio had been there, and if there was someone who would gleefully tarnish his reputation, Tom would put money on Silvio’s haughty features. Their walk in Rock Creek Park, the dinner dates, kissing in front of Eric. Choices he’d thought were measured, were careful risks, a planned, slow path to coming out.
All of that, everything he’d hoped for, everything he’d planned, every careful step he’d agonized over, was going up in smoke.
Ballard flipped open his padfolio across the table. His teeth ground together. “You know the Russians are evacuating their president out of Andrews Air Force base tonight. They are also talking about pulling out all Russian security agents and reducing their embassy staff down to essential personnel only.”
“Jesus,” Fink murmured.
