Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 16

  "I see." I'm all but speechless. Then I manage to say, "To say I'm impressed would be a gross understatement. This is brilliant, your workup."

  "Michael, back in Washington I have never lost a trial. I'm not going to ruin my record by losing one here in Moscow."

  I'm thinking. The ray of hope is growing brighter.

  "What do we do about Marcel and Verona Sakharov? They're still in jail because of my stupidity."

  "I'm working on that. I'm thinking arrangements can be made between the CIA and FSB that will spring them free."

  "Such as?"

  She raises a hand. "Slow down, Michael. I said I'm working on that. I didn't say I had answers yet. Let me talk to a certain man I know at the Embassy. We might have some leverage left yet."

  "I want to hug you."

  She looks around. "Please don't. At least not here." Her coffee has come and she takes a long sip then scowls. "This stuff. How do they drink this?"

  "I was beginning to think it was only me. What I'd give for a decent cup of coffee about now."

  "I know where there's a Starbucks. Next time we'll meet there."

  "I think it's time we meet at Van's. We need to get him into the loop."

  "I've got that covered. Van is going to assist you at trial. So am I."

  "Are you sure about this?"

  "Am I sure I want to call you as Rusty's father and further corroborate his story? Yes, I'm sure of that. I need to be there at counsel table in order to do that."

  "I have to ask. Everything else has been covered except for one tiny detail: my own case. I told you that I've been charged with misrepresenting to the court who I am. Any ideas for me?"

  "I'll talk to the prosecutor. We might have to wrap you up in the deal we make over Marcel, Verona, and Anna. You'll be just another pretty face."

  "Now I know you're lying."

  We laugh and then we grow quiet. We sip our coffee and watch the snow outside. At last she is finished and tells me that I must leave first. She will wait fifteen minutes and leave in a different direction.

  "Will you be all right?" I ask her.

  She gives me an utterly resolute look. "What, you've already forgotten who you're dealing with here? Is that it?"

  We laugh, then, and I stand to go. Again, I want to hug her and thank her but I don't. Instead, I shrug into my coat and head for the door.

  Then I'm outside on the icy walk and I'm headed back to the main portal where I entered the park. When I look back I cannot see her through the window but I know she's just on the other side, watching me.

  For the first time since coming to Russia I have a feeling of some small comfort, as if I'm no longer in this alone.

  Then I'm slipping and sliding along on the path with its new snow cover and I'm wiping my coat sleeve across my eyes as I fight back a sudden flow of tears. There is much that occurred inside that restaurant, not the least of which was my fatherhood. It's finally going to come out for all the world to know.

  I'm that kid's father and I will do anything for him.

  Chapter 30

  Michael Gresham

  First day of trial. It's late March and the courtroom fills with spectators and press dressed in the clothes they wear in the deep of winter. There is no sign of Spring or Spring thaw; I don't even know if that ever happens in Russia. It is quite cold inside the courtroom and I'm sorry I have to remove my outer coat. I begin shivering when it’s set aside.

  I sit at counsel table in the Moscow City Court, waiting for them to bring Rusty to court so he can go on trial for murder and for stealing state secrets. Regardless of the charges, I'm resolute; one thing I know, when we're done here, Rusty will be going home with me. I've promised him I'll make that happen and now I have to deliver. The only problem is, I don't have the foggiest idea how that's all going to work if I can't make the jury believe Rusty's really a businessman from China who just happened to get swept up by the FSB in a wide-flung net.

  At the table across from me, a fifteen-inch tall partition between us, sits Sergei Gliisky, the man I know to be the prosecutor. My co-counsel Van, short for Ivanovich, is seated beside me, noisily clearing his throat and blowing his nose as he struggles with a late-winter onset of the flu bug that is attacking everyone in Moscow this March. He has a box of tissues set before him, a stack of books on either side, and a small waste basket on the floor between us that he fills and empties, fills and empties, with his used tissue. Antonia sits on my other side. She has prepared a complete trial notebook with red tabs for witnesses and yellow tabs for exhibits. She is the glue that will hold us together.

  I don't want to turn around and look behind us because the hundred or so citizens sitting back there are people who might serve on our jury. I won't turn around because I don't want them to see how damn frightened I am right now, feeling like a canary in a coal mine. Anything is possible here, Van has explained to me, including sudden death.

  Now I hear a commotion behind me and I have to turn to see. Rusty, and Anna Petrov, have been brought into the defendants’ glass cage at the back of the courtroom. From there they peer up at me and the others like two apes in a zoo. I suddenly feel very sad for Rusty. Since he's been locked up, I've only been allowed to speak to him by telephone through Plexiglas. Same for Anna. She seems to be fading into a kind of shell the more I visit her, each time without bringing hope or something she can cling to. But I haven't been able to let on to either of them how I'm going to defend them for fear the FSB will somehow tease it out of them or beat it out of them or drug them and coax it out of them. There is too much at stake for me to have been worrying about their feelings these past six weeks as I've been working up their cases and visiting with them as often as I have—usually three times a week. Today they've dressed Rusty in dark slacks and a gray shirt with a Nehru collar. Anna is dressed similarly but her shirt is cream colored. Neither prisoner has even a dot of color in his or her face and both sit there morose, staring straight ahead, as if they are already defeated.

  Milling around the courtroom are at least eight uniformed female and male officers wearing blue slacks and blue shirts, waffle-soled boots, and police hats with huge badges. On their hips are large pistols that they all carry high so they touch the diaphragm on their sides. They remind me of the courthouse guards I have observed during my time at the federal courthouse in Chicago. Armed, unsmiling, and ready for anything. I look in the direction of one and she stares daggers at me. I move my eyes off her and look elsewhere. These are not guards to be taken any way but seriously.

  Now the volume in the court increases among the spectators and the press when a door behind the judge's platform opens and a gaunt, scrawny looking man wearing a black and red robe ascends to the highest seat in the room. He leans to the side and says something to a woman who must be his clerk and then he turns to a fat file that's awaiting him on his desk. He flips it open, scratches his chin, and begins reading. His name is Gregor Herzmink and I've had several run-ins with him already. While preparing for this day, Van and I have filed no less than eleven pre-trial motions and he has ruled against us on them one by one. Except one, the last one we filed seeking to exclude witnesses from the courtroom except when they are testifying. That one he allowed. Van told me later I shouldn't feel too happy about winning that one; it seems Russian criminal law requires the exclusion of witnesses anyway. Still, it felt good to have at least one thing go our way.

  Already I know Judge Gregor Herzmink dislikes me intensely. Several times during the workup of this case he has let me know that if I'm convicted of falsely posing as a Russian citizen that I will spend the rest of my life at hard labor in a place where it's never warm and where the prisoners freeze to death before their sentences are served out. Believe me, he has my full attention and I have wracked my brain trying to conceive of a defense for myself. So far I have very little to offer, but I'm putting Rusty and Anna ahead of me these days. While I might go to a Gulag, they must be returned to America.

  My own
problems are matters for another day. The bottom line is that the judge doesn't like me, whether it's because I'm a phony or because I'm a defense attorney or both. It doesn't really matter; I have my work cut out for me and even doubled thanks to his hateful attitude. As he continues flipping through the file before him, my mind continues to cringe then regroup, fearful of the next blow from the bench.

  At long last the judge looks up, closing the file before him. He speaks Russian to a woman sitting just off to his side. She is the translator, I have learned these past months and—oh happy day—she struggles with English. She replies back to him and he looks at me and glowers. Says the translator, "The judge would like to know, do you have excellent protection?"

  That one goes right over my head. I whisper to Van, "Do I have protection? I don't quite follow that."

  "He told her to ask if you have Russian co-counsel familiar with Russian trials, an expert."

  "Oh," I say. "Well, tell him I've got Mr. Ivanovich here, who's been with me all the way so far. He's my expert."

  She turns and rattles off a stream of Russian to His Honor. His scowl deepens and he almost says something in reply, but either thinks better of it or has become bored with a lawyer like me whose only role is to be present as the case is lost and the defendants sentenced to death. He then speaks for a minute or so and sits back. He crosses his arms on his chest while the translator turns his torrent into English. In short, the judge has told the jury venire that they are honorable people today. He tells them that they will be treated honorably by the court and the parties as befits their honorable station. There are occasional responses muttered behind me. I take the moment to turn around in my seat as if to smile at the prospective jury but really to check on Rusty. I don't even know whether any of what's going on in court is being piped into the glass cell he shares with Anna. My co-counsel Van—who's never attended a trial of any kind before—has told me he doesn't know but he guesses they are getting a feed of some kind. Antonia is sitting with her hands folded on the table before her, the picture of calm.

  The judge nods at the clerk and she stands. She then begins naming names and one-by-one members of the venire step forward. They take seats in the jury box where they look around and blink as if startled awake from a long dream. In the U.S. we would be allowed by the court to qualify each juror with a series of questions asked by both attorneys. Evidently that's not the case here; once their names are drawn and they come forward, they have become jurors without further ado. This entire process takes less than ten minutes.

  The translator barks out the name of the first witness and I turn to see this person come into the courtroom and make the long walk down front. He is a bull of a man, the witness, with a thick, powerful neck and buzzed white hair. A long scar crosses his forehead in a flat "Z," giving him the look of someone you wouldn't want to tangle with outside the courtroom. At the witness stand he turns and raises his right hand. The oath is administered and he sits mightily in the chair that is too small for his great bulk. Now he casts his eyes around the courtroom, unsmiling, measuring, taking stock as one would who is accustomed to brawling on a second's notice. I watch all this and almost instantly realize the man is FSB.

  The prosecutor's voice is strident as he poses the first question to the witness. The translator speaks out even as the witness is giving his answer and she is suddenly much better than I had first thought, translating the witness's words even as they are being spoken.

  "Dimitry Vasilov," says the witness.

  And we have his name.

  Now we'll listen and see how much damage he can do to my son and his partner.

  Chapter 31

  Michael Gresham

  "Mr. Vasilov," the prosecutor begins, "tell us your rank and employment."

  "I work for the Russian Federation. I'm an investigator. My rank is captain."

  Nonsense, I'm thinking. He's an FSB agent, a spy, a trained killer. He's anything but an investigator.

  "How long have you held that position?"

  "Seventeen years."

  "Who do you report to?"

  "Colonel Igor Tarayev."

  "Mr. Tarayev is the chief investigator for the government, is he not?"

  "He is."

  "Now, directing your attention to the night of December twenty-fourth just past. Please tell us what you were doing that night."

  "I was on assignment for my job. I was providing security for a member of the British Embassy."

  "That person's name?"

  "Henrik Nurayov."

  "What does Mr. Nurayov do?"

  "He arranges commercial sales of British goods."

  "What kinds of sales does he facilitate?"

  "Oftentimes a government agency will have an excess of certain items. Such as automobiles, computers, flat screen TV's—the kind of stuff an embassy might use. That's what he was doing the night I had his protection."

  "So he was involved in a sale of British goods on Christmas Eve?"

  "He was. He had just completed a sale of those goods to the Russian Federation and the shipment had gone out that same day."

  "This sounds innocent enough. Why would a British embassy employee need guards in this case?"

  "Money. He was in possession of a large sum of money once the deal was struck. My orders were to see him back to the British embassy with his funds."

  "Had you served in a similar capacity before?"

  "Almost daily. We are a security service."

  Right. They are the world's nastiest spy agency and group of cold-blooded killers on the face of the earth. Security service? Like the devil is just a naughty child.

  "Directing your attention to the two defendants in the rear of the courtroom in the prisoner dock. Would you look at them, please?"

  He does as instructed, then returns his gaze to the prosecutor.

  "All right."

  "Have you ever seen these people before?"

  "Yes. I arrested them in Moscow."

  "Why did you arrest them?"

  "There were charges filed against them. My supervisor had received a tip that the two could be found on the premises of Rudina Alaevsky, who sits on the Duma."

  "What did you do with this tip?"

  "My team and I loaded into two SUV's and went to the location. We entered the guest house of the premises shortly before nine-thirty p.m."

  "What happened there?"

  "We put the two defendants under arrest. They are both charged with Homicide One and Theft of State Secrets."

  "Who are these people?"

  "They are known by us to be American CIA agents."

  "Did you personally see them at Henrik Nurayov's dacha on Christmas Eve?"

  "I did not. But I know they were there."

  "How do you know they were there?"

  "The woman, Anna Petrov, has admitted as much."

  "Who did she admit this to?"

  "To me."

  "Was there a written confession made?"

  "There was. You already have it."

  "Was her admission freely and voluntarily given?"

  "Yes. She has been helpful."

  "What did she tell you they did that night?"

  "She confessed they approached the dacha in the dark with weapons drawn. They then shot and killed several members of the Nurayov security contingent. This included Colonel Tarayev's son. A sad development for everyone."

  "Why did they do this?"

  "I suppose they were trying to rob Henrik Nurayov. Really, you should ask them. But I doubt if they'll tell the truth."

  I'm instantly on my feet. "Objection! Witness is commenting on the character of my clients!"

  "Overruled. Please sit down, counsel."

  "Judge, please. It's inappropriate for counsel—"

  "That's enough, Mr. Sakharov. Your objection was denied. Not another word now."

  I have more I want to say, but think better of it. Judge Herzmink has never been open to entertaining my legal arguments. It is an awkwa
rd moment and I have clearly been brushed aside by the judge as if I'm only some bothersome fly at a picnic. One juror is watching for my reaction and she smiles as I meekly re-take my seat. She shakes her head at me and I realize her smile was not a friendly one. She is scolding me with her facial expressions, telling me I got what I deserved.

  But the show isn't over yet.

  "Have you found the defendant Anna Petrov to be completely truthful?"

  "I believe what she has told me has been the truth. I believe this because I have checked out those parts of her story. But completely truthful? I believe she has left out the majority of her actions from that night. She omitted a huge chunk of the story in an attempt to cover up all the criminal activities they engaged in."

  "Did you observe any other actions of the defendants that night?"

  "I actually left through the front with Mr. Nurayov and his guest, a young woman he was entertaining. So I didn't see anything after that."

  "Why did you leave with Mr. Nurayov?"

  "For his safety. We were protecting him."

  "That is all I have. Thank you, Captain Vasilov."

  He stands as if to leave but the prosecutor speaks up and he re-takes the witness chair. The judge looks at me and gives a curt nod.

  "Mr. Vasilov, am I correct in saying you didn't really see the defendants at the dacha Christmas Eve?"

  The translator converts my question to Russian. The witness waits patiently.

  Then he answers, "Correct."

  "So you don't know if they shot anyone that night or not, do you?"

  "The Petrov woman says they did."

  Ignoring him, "You don't even know for sure if they were even there that night, do you?"

  "She says they were there."

  "Let me ask you about her so-called confession. When she was released from the city jail after you were finished with her she was terribly injured."

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Really? You couldn't observe her left arm was broken in two places?"