Page 140 of Hush

Desheriyev blinked. “I cannot know what that man was thinking.” He practically parroted Ballard’s words, and a few chuckles rose in the gallery. Even Ballard cracked a tiny, tiny smile.

“Are you absolutely certain that my client sent that text message?”

“Who else would send it? It had code. It talked about the plan.”

“A perfect text, then, to frame someone. I’ll ask again: are you certain my client sent that text message to you?”

“Da!Yes! It came from him!”

“You watched him type it? Watched him send it?”

“No—”

“Then how are you certain?”

Ballard stiffened again.

“It had same code,” Desheriyev spat. “It had to be him.”

“Andnever, in the history of communications, has anyoneeverimpersonated another, or cracked a code, or sent a message that claimed to be from one person when it was in fact from another.”

“Objection! The defense is attacking the witness, not asking questions.”

“Withdrawn.” Renner put his hands in his pockets, suddenly casual, as if just thinking out loud. He squinted, looking up. “Doesn’t it seem very, very strange, Mr. Desheriyev, that my client would send you a text message from his own phone, especially when you testified that you believe he was planning on burning you and making you take the fall for this crime? Doesn’t that seem… nonsensical?”

“Objection! This was asked a minute ago and answered. The witness can’t know what was going through the defendant’s mind.”

Renner shook his head. “Withdrawn.” He buttoned his coat, side-eyeing the jury. Tom saw several peering at him, other scribbling notes, drawing diagrams and charts trying to piece it all together. One juror had a timeline going and wore a deep frown. Renner smiled. “Pass the witness, Your Honor.”

Ballard stepped forward. “How do you know that the cocaine given to you in the dead drop was from Mr. Kryukov?”

“Because he said he would give to me.”

“Along with materials related to the shooting?”

“Yes. It would all come together.”

“And, again, how did you know that you were speaking to Vadim Kryukov?”

“I knew his voice. Itwashim. He is famous in Russian dissident circles. There are many, many videos of him online, making speeches. His voice is well known.”

“Did anyone in the prosecution or investigative team mention Vadim Kryukov to you before your confession?”

“No.”

“Have you cooperated fully with the prosecution’s investigation?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you choose to cooperate with us?”

Desheriyev slid another icy glare toward Kryukov. “I not go down alone for this,” he spat. “Not when this plan was not mine. Not when I was set up. I do not give a shit about President Vasiliev, but I never plan to kill him. Untilhecalled me.” Desheriyev jerked his thumb toward Kryukov. “And now, I rot in prison. But I will not go there alone.”

Now the jury’s gaze slid to Kryukov, appraising the silent man sitting statuesque at the defense table. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted, not once. To the jury, he was an object, a phantom, a mask to throw their fears and suspicions upon. As distasteful as Desheriyev was as a human being, he was more real to them than the defendant. Tom watched the wheels turn in the jurors’ minds.

As Tom turned, he caught Ballard’s gaze, first also appraising the jury, and then turning to appraise him.

It wasn’t a friendly look, or a professional stare. It was the gaze of a prosecutor dead-set on turning a man inside out, on ripping his character from one end of the law to the other, and hanging his tattered soul from the beams of the courthouse.