Page 93 of Hush
He sighed. Pressed his lips together. Smiled a tight, thin smile. “Mr. Kryukov, do you watch a lot of television? Hollywood movies? Seen a lot of set ups on screen? It’s not that easy in real life. People just don’t get set up.”
Kryukov’s stare turned frigid, wrathful.
“There’sphysical evidenceconnecting you to this crime. Cell phone texts, verified by both cell companies and the cell tower, your fingerprint. Desheriyev’s statement backs up the hard evidence.” He held his hand out over his notes, as if he was summoning the truth from the warrant and the complaint. “I’m not asking you if you did it. And you don’t have to try and convince me you’re innocent. My job is to defend you. Not believe you.”
Lunging, Kryukov grabbed the rubber-coated wires, his fingers wrapping around the mesh screen like claws. “Idid notdo this,” he growled. “I am being set up.”
“Bywho?”
“That is your job. To defend me, you must find who truly did this. Who set me up. Who has the power to do this kind of thing? Who can change cell records? Plant fingerprints?”
His mind whirled, racing from one thought to the next. It was preposterous. It was ludicrous. It was the stuff of bad Hollywood movies, Bruce Willis flicks with too many explosions and too little sense.
But if there was one government in the world that wanted Vasiliev dead, it would have been the United States. Hadn’t Vasiliev just come from the Capitol where he’d met with congressional leaders who collectively gave him the finger? Bipartisanship, at least, in defiance of Russia’s aggression in Eastern Europe? And hadn’t President McDonough, the day before, supposedly told Vasiliev to fuck off?
Was itpossible?
Honestly, probably not.
Could he build a case around it, though? At the very least, he could make it excruciating for the government. Prosecute and reveal their dirty secrets, or keep their mouths shut and let a mistrial happen when they didn’t produce information on discovery. Perhaps suffer their failure to assassinate Vasiliev, even.
“Okay…” He shifted, leaning forward. Braced his elbows on his padfolio and chewed on his lip. Thoughts tumbled, merged, coalesced. A strategy, a loose one, began to form. “Okay, here’s what we do. Forget everything I said. Our defense is that you were framed. In discovery, we’re entitled to all information that exculpates you. That says you didn’t do it. So, again, we ask for everything. Everything the government has on the assassination attempt. The forensics, the FBI investigation, any intelligence they’ve uncovered, before the attack and after, that discusses the attack. Foreign intelligence intercepts. Internal documents. NSA recordings. Human intelligence sources and their reports. What has the CIA’s top spy in Moscow said about this attack? Anything and everything the FBI, CIA, NSA, and Secret Service have on this. Our government’s investigation in total.
“Will they give you this information?” Kryukov looked dubious at best. “In Russia, they would laugh you off, all the way to Siberia.”
“They will have to give it to us, or I can move for a mistrial. Like I told you, we don’t do show trials here. Nothing is fake. And, with what I know about the judge, he’ll fall right in line. We demand the information, or we move for a mistrial.” Renner snapped his padfolio closed. “Easy as that.”
“But what about finding the man who really did this? Clearing my name?”
“If you walk out of this prison, your name is as clear as it’s ever going to be.”
Kryukov slammed his open palm against the wire mesh. “Not good enough! I did not do this!”
“One step at a time, Mr. Kryukov. We just need to make this hurt for the U.S. government. Leave that to me.”
Chapter 24
That evening, Mike turned the TV off, ending Tom’s obsessive watching of CNN. Since the case had been assigned, Tom had the TV on, either in his office or at Mike’s place, and he stared at the screen like he was waiting for the world to worsen, for the next breaking news alert to be more terrible than the last. His face kept popping up, along with commentators speculating about how he’d run the trial, or what he was like. He was painted as a demon and a saint, a defender of justice and a pansy who gave in to defense attorneys.
So far, not a word, not a whisper, about his sexuality. About Friday. About him and Mike.
He was desperately, pathetically relieved.
“I wish I could cook you dinner.” Mike wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and held him. “I’m sorry my place is such a disaster.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“You need to eat. There’s a Lebanese place a few blocks up. Let me run over there. Get some hummus, some appetizer stuff. You can pick at it, eat slowly.” He rubbed his hands over Tom’s arms. Concern hung in his eyes, deep pools of worry and care. Tom hadn’t had someone care this much about him in decades. His throat clenched, and he nodded, afraid his voice would break if he spoke.
“Can I take Etta Mae? Give her a walk?”
At the word “walk”, Etta Mae perked up, rising on the couch and staring at Mike, her head cocked all the way to the right. Her tail wagged, slapping the couch like a deranged drummer.
“She’d like that.”
“I think you should stay here, though. I don’t want to stumble on anyone, or have anyone recognize you. Or follow you back here.” Mike looked like he was telling Tom that his mother had died.
“Yeah. Yeah, I agree.” Tom shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll wait here.” He tried to smile.
