Page 87 of Hush
President Vasiliev stepped away from the podium and climbed carefully into a waiting limo, shielded by his security team as the crowds went crazy. The anchor broke in, and the bellowing Russian cheers faded away. “Strong words from President Dimitry Vasiliev in Moscow today as the world waits and watches Washington DC and the arraignment of DC Sniper Bulat Desheriyev tomorrow morning.”
Tom rested his head against Mike’s headboard and squeezed his eyes closed.
Chapter 22
June 29th
Mike woke Tom gently at four AM. “We need to go soon. We need to leave early.” He handed Tom a cup of coffee, brewed from his coffeemaker he’d moved to the bathroom, resting it on the little shelf above the toilet.
Tom groaned but got up, moving through his shower and morning routine in silence. Mike laid out his miserable breakfast choices at the end of the bed: a Pop-Tart, a protein bar, an apple, and a banana. Tom grunted and grabbed the Pop-Tart and banana. Mike took the protein bar. Etta Mae watched them with wide eyes, her tail drooping as they left her behind.
He drove them straight north, into Maryland, and spent two hours winding through Silver Spring, University Park, and Glenarden before sweeping down to Route 214, south of Fed-Ex Field. He took 214 until it turned into East Capitol Street and followed that all the way into downtown DC. They arrived at the courthouse from the exact opposite direction they both normally came from.
They didn’t say much on the drive in. Tom was quiet, subdued, and Mike kept the soft bubble of stillness intact. The morning radio spoke for them.
Overnight, the protest outside the U.S. embassy in Moscow had turned into a dangerous riot. Molotov cocktails flew and burned down trees on the embassy grounds. Russian police forces were extremely slow to respond and did little to quell the furious mob. By dawn, most of the dangerous rioters had fled, leaving only the chanting protesters screaming for the U.S. to be evicted from their country. “Most predict another long night of siege against the beleaguered U.S. embassy in Moscow,” the softly accented voice of the radio newscaster said.
When they arrived, Mike took Tom up to the fourth floor in the Annex through the internal secured elevator. Already, the beefed-up security was clearly evident at the courthouse. Heavily-armed marshals in black fatigues stood post outside and in, covering all the entrances and exits. Plainclothes court security officers, contractors the marshals hired to help with the routine security procedures at every courthouse, were in all the hallways, at every door, and in the elevators. Their radios squawked with coded signals, units checking in and reporting every fifteen minutes.
He walked Tom to his chambers and watched him sit at his desk, power up his machine. Then, he dashed back downstairs, bullied his way to the front of the coffee line and ordered Tom’s coffee, extra-large, extra-fast, and a scone to go. He took the main spiral staircase two at a time and hurried back to Tom’s office.
When he got there, the door was closed and raised voices echoed within.
Shit. He’d been gone four minutes and already there was trouble. Maybe not the kind of trouble that he was good at solving. He was good for bare-knuckle fights and chest-pounding, not political catfights and turf wars. Was this Ballard, coming to grate on Tom so early?
Listening closely, he picked out the slow honey-drawl of Chief Judge Fink, his raised voice almost hoarse-sounding. Shit, shit.
Should he interrupt? There was no one higher in the courthouse than Chief Judge Fink. Even Winters,theU.S. Marshal for the court, answered to him. If Fink was hollering at Tom, Mike’s professional place was far, far away.
But his personal place was supporting Tom. And besides, Tom needed more caffeine if he was going to be fighting duels this early in the morning. This clearly was an emergency.
Mike strode in, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom. Chief Judge Fink kept yelling, his flappy neck shaking with each shouted word. “Damn it, Brewer, this is not some joke trial! A seasoned hand is needed here! We have to make sure this case goes the way it needs to go!”
“The way it needs togo?” Tom’s jaw dropped, incredulity straining his voice. “The way it needs to go is after the truth! And to follow the letter of the law!”
“This isn’t the place for your puritanical Superman beliefs, Brewer. Ballard is concerned you’ll use this trial as a platform for your liberal values. And frankly, so am I. You have a history of being a soft judge.”
“I didn’t realize respect for the truth and rule of law were liberal values.”
“Thisisn’tthe place, Brewer,” Fink growled. “We need to send a message to the Russians that we meanbusiness. Putting the screws to this cell is exactly what we need to do. Throw the book at them with maximum sentences. Prove to the world that if we get a bloody nose, we give two black eyes back.”
“I intend to show the world that our justice system is fair. That we live by laws and due process, not a firing squad. And nothing is decided before the facts are presented.”
“In this case, everything is already decided.” Fink sighed, leaning against Tom’s small conference table. “If you bow out now, no one will blame you. We can say that your trial calendar was too full of cases that couldn’t be moved around. It won’t look like anything.”
Tom swallowed. Mike hovered, watching him. Even though he’d barged in, neither man had noticed him. They were that caught up in their argument.
Would Tom pass on the trial? Give it up to another judge? The heat would be off him if he did. No more looking over his shoulder, no more fears that eviscerated him day and night. He’d be back to normal, dodging the massive sniper bullet of this trial.
But, would true justice be served? Fink’s words hung in the air like noxious fumes, swamp gas that stung the eyes and choked the back of the throat. Tom had different ideas about justice, Mike knew, than what Fink was proposing. Deciding guilt and a sentence before the facts were heard? Who knew where the DC Sniper case would go? Signing his name to a commitment to vengeance would go against everything that Tom was. It would go against his bones.
“I amnotrecusing myself from this case,” Tom growled. “Especially not so you and Ballard can handpick a judge who will do this administration’s bidding. We aren’t jury and executioner for a reason!”
“The White House is watching you closely, Brewer.” Fink shook his head. “Verydamn closely. You grandstand or showboat a single inch, and hellfire will rain down on you.”
“Sticking to the law isn’t grandstanding.”
Fink threw up his arms and stormed out, almost colliding with Mike. He’d had the sense, at least, to close the door behind him. The entire fourth floor could have heard that.
