Page 88 of Hush

After Fink’s sloped shoulders and hunched back disappeared down the hall, Tom slumped against his desk, exhaling hard and squeezing his eyes closed. Mike set Tom’s coffee and scone by his keyboard. “What an asshole.”

“He’s the chief judge of the DC federal circuit.”

“He’s still an asshole. He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

Tom was quiet. “Am I making a mistake? Should I just wash my hands of this?”

Mike blew air out of his ballooning cheeks. “I think if you passed it off you’d be upset with yourself. You’d regret it, maybe for the rest of your life.”

“You know me pretty well.”

“You let me know you. And, that comes with the territory. You get to know the person you’re dating.”

“It’s good to be known.”

Half an hour before nine AM, Ballard breezed into Tom’s office.

“Desheriyev has turned. He’s helping us find the rest of the cell, starting with who paid him for the hit. We don’t want to tip off that he’s working with us. He’s going to plead not guilty in the arraignment, but we’ve worked out a deal.”

“It’s the judge who signs off on any deal. We’re not just told about it like we’re not involved.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not involved in this, Brewer. This comes from way, way above you. The White House. So just go in there and do your song and dance with the gavel, and then let us get back to the real work.”

Tom’s soul stung, singed by Ballard’s slap to his position. “What makes you think his handler and the rest of the cell are even still around?”

“We’ve found evidence that someone was directing his actions, and he’s backing the evidence up with his statement. Look, Desheriyev is major league. Forensics from his rifle match a dozen unsolved murders across Europe. Major hits, clean. Professional. Interpol’s been searching for this guy for years. They thought he was a ghost.”

“Why is he talking to you? You’re not that special.”

“Cute. He thinks he’s been set up. Desheriyev wants his handler to pay. We put a tail on the handler. He’s acting completely fucking normal. Thinks he’ll get away clean, and the anvil will fall on Desheriyev.” Ballard grinned. “So you need to play your part. Go along with the script. Be a good boy. And sign this. It’s the arrest warrant for his handler.”

Tom read through every page, making Ballard wait. He took in the criminal complaint, the charges alleged against Desheriyev’s handler, backed up by hard evidence and Desheriyev’s confession, just as Ballard said. It was a decent case. He scrawled his looping signature on the bottom.

“Get out, Ballard. Knock before you enter a judge’s chambers next time.”

The arraignment began precisely at nine AM. Mike escorted Tom from his chambers, and they stood together outside the rear doors behind his courtroom, behind Tom’s bench. For the moment, they were alone.

And then, the bailiff’s booming voice shouted, “All rise!” and it was time. Mike followed Tom and took up his post as close to Tom as he could get.

Ballard stood at the prosecutor’s table, arrogance leaching from his every pore. He looked stunning in his three-piece suit, a dark navy pinstripe with a blazing white pocket square poking out. He wanted to be on camera, wanted the world to see him. Cast him as the hero in the media movie the news channels were spinning in real time.

Desheriyev stood at the defense table, alone. As if he was representing himself. He stared Tom down, never blinking, like he was committing Tom to memory.

The front row of the courthouse gallery, just behind the wooden bar separating the courtroom floor from the audience seats, was reserved for the media. Reporters clutched paper pads and recorders in their sweaty palms, fingering the play/pause buttons and shuffling their feet. No still photos were allowed, and there were no flashes, no clicks and whirs of motors. Video cameras recorded everything from the back row, silent sentinels hanging like vultures over the proceedings. Marshals, on loan from headquarters, lined the walls, watching both Desheriyev and the audience with wary suspicion. Mike stayed rooted by Tom’s bench.

The media’s judgment of Tom’s worth begannow. He would be hailed as an arbiter of the law, fair and impartial, or cast down as a failure, jumped on and slaughtered on the media’s altar of sacrifice. It was always the notorious cases that showed a judge’s true colors. Strengths and weaknesses, biases and predilections, exposed to the world. Fink had revealed his earlier. Bending to pressure, following the political winds blustering from the White House. Ballard’s were likewise on full display: arrogance and vanity in droves.

Tom was sending his own signal—to Chief Judge Fink, to the White House, to everyone—by managing the arraignment himself and not kicking it to a magistrate. He was in control. This was his trial and his courtroom. He blew over for no man, not even the president. His own internal compass would guide him through this.

Mike, for one, believed wholeheartedly in him.

“You may be seated.” Tom’s voice rang out, clear and strong. “The matter before us is the United States of America versus Bulat Desheriyev. Counselors, please enter your appearances.”

“Dylan Ballard, United States Attorney, for the United States.”

Silence, from Desheriyev.

Tom peered down at him. “Mr. Desheriyev, do you understand the charges brought against you?”