Page 89 of Hush
All eyes snapped to the defendant’s table. “Yes,” Desheriyev growled.
“You are being charged with four counts of violating 18 USC 1111, felony murder, and one count of violating 18 USC 1116, the attempted murder of a foreign official within the United States. You are also being charged under chapter 113b, which governs acts of terrorism. Are you prepared to enter a plea?”
Reporters leaned forward, and Mike could practically hear the lenses in the video cameras zooming in, irises narrowing as they focused on the next words.
“Not. Guilty.”
The reports murmured, a hush going through the gallery. Pencils scratched on paper.
Tom should move on to recording Desheriyev’s plea. Mike knew the script by heart after watching so many trials from over his judges’ shoulders. After that, bail should be discussed. But, Ballard had squashed all thoughts of bail in private through his plea deal with Desheriyev.
The whole arraignment was just a show, a cover for the execution of triple warrants occurring that very moment. Warrants against the man Desheriyev named as his handler, their dead drop location, and the handler’s home. This entire arraignment was phony, a way to fix the world’s attention while the FBI brought down the hammer on Desheriyev’s unsuspecting handler.
It was the next arraignment, that of Desheriyev’s handler, or the man above him, or the man above him, that mattered. That was the real trial.
Ballard looked at his watch. He nodded to Tom.
That was the signal.
“No bail is set for Mr. Desheriyev. Pre-trial hearings are to be scheduled at a further time.” He rose and the courtroom followed, thundering feet scuffing over the carpet and tile. Tom descended from the bench, disappearing out the back door ahead of Mike, leaving behind the rising din of confused voices, reporters questioning each other and trying to reach out to Ballard for comment, and Desheriyev being led away.
By the time they reached Tom’s office, the breaking news alert was on screen.
Desheriyev’s handler had been arrested.
Ballard appeared on TV, standing this time in front of the courthouse.
“This morning, at nine AM, agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation served an arrest warrant for Mr. Vadim Kryukov. The three-count criminal complaint alleges that Vadim Kryukov planned the assassination attempt of Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev, and hired Bulat Desheriyev to carry out that assassination. This plan resulted in the deaths of three decorated Secret Service agents and one Russian presidential security officer.” Ballard looked up, squinting into the sea of cameras. FBI agents stood behind him, a show of America’s strength.
“First, we, the United States government, allege that Mr. Kryukov had political and personal reasons for planning the assassination of President Vasiliev, and that Mr. Kryukov was a member of a Russian anarchist group dedicated to the overthrow of the Russian state. Second, Mr. Kryukov hired and financed Mr. Desheriyev, paying him to travel to the United States, establish himself in DC, and pay a lump sum amount for the assassination of President Vasiliev. Third, in pursuit of the assassination, Mr. Kryukov communicated via cell phone and text to Mr. Desheriyev, providing him with the information and guidance needed to carry out this plot. While our investigation remains ongoing, the world should rest assured that the United States will commit its full resources to apprehending and prosecuting Mr. Kryukov, Mr. Desheriyev, and their conspirators.”
Ballard folded his notes and tucked them into his suit jacket. “This is America’s promise to the world. Our criminal justice systemworks. We have moved quickly to find and apprehend the vicious terrorists responsible for this heinous act. They will likewise be swiftly prosecuted as well. Thank you.” He strode away, not answering any of the shouted questions from the horde of reporters crowding the courthouse steps.
They were back in Tom’s courtroom for Kryukov’s arraignment at three PM.
It happened much like the first time, except the reporters were buzzed on adrenaline and pumped from being deceived before. They’d crawled all over the city, chasing the FBI as they served search warrants for Kryukov’s property. They each practically vibrated as they held their pens and pencils over their notepads, voraciously hungry for the story about to unfold.
Ballard was still smug, even smugger now. He acted like he’d orchestrated the entire operation, and it was his face that was on every TV. He was the man of the hour, the hero of the people. Hell, with this publicity, he didn’t need to chase a judgeship. He could sail into the Senate.
Beside him, Lucas Barnes, the FBI’s counterterrorism number one, stood. He’d be helping the prosecution. And, another man introduced himself, a tall, reedy man with thinning brown hair and a beaten-in look to his face. He looked like a pug that had run into a door a few hundred times. He growled that he was a “special advisor” from the Russian embassy, sent to assist the United States in this trial. Ballard never looked at him.
Kryukov came in, shackled and restrained between four marshals. His defense attorney, Richard Renner looked like as happy as a criminal defense attorney could. His eyes raked over Kryukov, and Tom could practically see dollar signs in his pupils. Renner had the smarmy look of a high-priced criminal defense attorney—salt-and-pepper hair slicked back on the sides, gelled on top. He wore a double-breasted suit and tied a full Windsor. He had a gold tie bar and gold cuff links, and his shoes shone like glass.
Vadim Kryukov stood beside him, hunched over in his shackles, long, straggly blond hair hanging half in his face. He wore the dark red jumpsuit of the federal detention center’s most dangerous inmates, those charged with the most heinous crimes.
“Mr. Kryukov, do you understand the charges brought against you?”
Kryukov looked up, finally. His eyes were dark, darting around the courtroom before landing on Tom. “Yes,” he said, his voice breathy.
Tom stared back. He’d seen Kryukov before. He was the man on the megaphone that Saturday, at Union Square Park outside the Capitol. He’d been bellowing at the Russian president, screaming the names of gay Russians jailed or killed. He’d shouted something in Russian, spitting fury into his megaphone. Had he been there to watch Desheriyev’s handiwork? Watch his plan unfold?
“Are you prepared to enter a plea, Mr. Kryukov?”
“I did not do it!”
“The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Renner smoothly interrupted Kryukov, speaking over him and placing a hand on his shackled wrist.
“Mr. Kryukov’s plea is entered.” Tom laced his fingers together, staring Kryukov down. That Saturday kept replaying in his mind, the shouts of the protestors, the bucket drums. The sun, the heat. Bellowing Russian, his heart galloping in his chest. Kryukov in the center, next to the Russian president’s effigy in a tutu and holding a rainbow flag. “Do you wish to discuss bail?”
