Page 145 of Hush
Kryukov kept going. “I was thrown out of the prison because I was sick. I had very bad infection, and tuberculosis. I spent two months in hospital in Siberia. I made my way to the U.S. consulate in Yekaterinburg, in Western Siberia. I applied for asylum, and moved to the United States.”
“Your application for asylum was approved because you were being persecuted in Russia for being homosexual?”
“Yes.”
“Please, continue.”
Tom glanced at Ballard. He could object, if he wanted to be a son of a bitch. Long, winding narratives were objectionable, and Renner’s relevant legal point had yet to be made. But Ballard stayed down. He watched with narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together in a flat line.
“In the U.S., I knew no one. I had nothing. I did what I could to survive. I joined a fewBratvagroups, just to make some fast money. They asked me to start dealing for them. What could I do? I said yes.”
“That’s how you started dealing cocaine?”
“Yes.”
“And you dealt to how many people?”
“Many, many people. Hundreds. Many, many.”
“And, do you know exactly where each and every baggie of cocaine that you sold is today?”
“I have no idea. What people do with them, after they buy…” He shook his head. “I just sell to one person. They do whatever they want.”
“Did you ever put a baggie of cocaine into a locker at Union Station, along with maps of the Capitol, an LGBT pride parade march permit, and information on President Vasiliev’s trip?”
“No. Never.”
Renner nodded again.
One piece of evidence addressed.
“Does the number six-two-one mean anything to you?”
“Yes. It is number of one of many laws in Russia that criminalize homosexuals. The anti-LGBT propaganda law. I was arrested and charged under this law.”
“Do you use this code ever in texting?”
Kryukov swallowed. “Yes, sometimes when I am dealing. When we move shipments and checking to make sure everything is legitimate. That no one’s phone is tapped or compromised.”
“Did you ever text Bulat Desheriyev and use this number as an authentication code in your texts?”
“No, never. I never texted Desheriyev. I never have met the man. Never spoken to him. Never.
Was this pure and brutal honesty, or carefully crafted perjury? Tom couldn’t figure it out.
“The prosecution alleges that you sent a text from your phone to Desheriyev’s phone on Thursday morning. Did you send this text?”
“No. I could not have sent that text. I was asleep. I passed out at three in the morning. I did not wake up until two in the afternoon. I was drunk. I was high on cocaine. I was unconscious.”
“Was there anyone with you who could corroborate this?”
“Yes.” Kryukov’s voice, again, broke. He gritted his teeth, breathed hard, almost hissing. Took a shaking breath. “Yes, I was not alone. I had a lover over that night. He was gone when I woke, but he was there until late morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“My building records when people come and go. He left sometime after ten in the morning.”
Tom again glanced at Ballard. Ballard scowled, leaning forward and hunched over his notes. This was sounding more like a deposition or an FBI interview and less like a direct examination. How much of this did Ballard already know? What did henotknow?
