Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 23

  "How often do you visit with Russell in China?"

  "At least every week, I'd say. Sometimes lunch with just him; sometimes a family dinner on a Friday or Saturday evening. We're pretty close and I keep close tabs on my offspring." This last part is said with an engaging smile that the jury returns. There are many parents among them, I see from their response. So far, so good.

  "What does Russell do in China for work?"

  "Rusty is a businessman. He always has been, since he started selling packages of vegetable seeds door-to-door when he was nine. He hasn't stopped selling and innovating since then."

  "What kind of products does he sell?'

  "With kids anymore everything is a share. Rusty is involved in trade agreements—housing sharing—between citizens of China and Russia. It's amazing how many people want to travel to one place or the other. They go for business reasons and they go to vacation and sightsee. There are similar companies doing this elsewhere, but Rusty insists his is the first among our two countries."

  "Perhaps that's a contribution to continuing world peace in its own way, as well. People getting to know each other."

  "Rusty is very much dedicated to giving his children a better world than the one he inherited. He hates the things that make countries close their borders to others. He believes in free trade among all countries and he believes in letting market forces effect the change that is natural rather that prescribed by tariffs and isolationist policies."

  "Is Rusty political, then?"

  "Not even a speck. Rusty is a humanitarian, for want of a better word. He believes in families and intermingling of all people. That's where his heart is its happiest, working to bring people closer together.”

  "So travel and lodging between countries just naturally interests him."

  "I would say naturally inspires him, not just interests. It's his raison d'être."

  "Mrs. Yung, is Christmas celebrated in China?"

  "It is by some of us. We're Catholics, my family, so we celebrate."

  "This past Christmas Eve. Did you see Russell on that evening?"

  "I did. Russell and Mya spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day at our house with Zhang and myself. We all celebrated together. We even went to a Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve."

  "The prosecutor in this case says otherwise. He's trying to tell the jury that Russell Xiang was in Moscow on Christmas Eve. You disagree with that?"

  "That's ridiculous. Rusty was with me, his wife, their children, and my husband. We've never had more fun together or come closer together in our worship and adoration of the Lord."

  "I appreciate that. Would you happen to have any pictures of you and Russell on Christmas Eve?"

  "I do. Right here on my camera."

  She then produces her iPhone and begins displaying pictures to the jury. All provided by her CIA handlers.

  "Here's Rusty and the kids in front of the tree. Rusty and his wife Mya. Me and Rusty. The only thing we're missing is a picture of you and Rusty, Mr. Sakharov."

  "Maybe next year," I smile. "Your Honor, we have prints of these same pictures that I'd like to pass to the jury."

  "Go ahead. Mr. Gliisky, there are no objections?"

  "None, Your Honor. I would claim surprise, but I won't. The pictures are harmless."

  Harmless, hell. They place Russell with these people on photographs imprinted with the date, December 24, 2016 and December 25, 2016 right on the face of the print. I didn't ask where these photographs came from, but I'm guessing CIA. Gliisky will never know and neither will I. Fault me if you will for this deceit; how is it any different from the government using guards to come in and say Russell confessed to them (which he would never do) or that Petrov confessed to them—only after she was beaten unconscious and tossed out into a snowbank with missing teeth? I've never been one to be the first to knowingly use tainted evidence in a trial. But once the other side does it, and the court allows it, then anything goes after that. This isn't church; it's court.

  "Ms. Yung, has Russell Xiang ever been employed by or associated with an intelligence services?"

  "Never."

  "How do you know this?"

  "I keep very close watch over my children. Russell is one of three. They watch each other, as well."

  "Would it be in Russell's character to kill someone?"

  "Russell? He once demonstrated against Japanese fishermen who catch live sharks, cut away their dorsal fins and kick them back into the ocean while they're still alive. Russell abhors cruelty among living things. He would never kill anyone. He hates guns, refused to serve in the military and instead opted for social services. It's just not in his nature to hurt others."

  "So shooting Russian guards would be something he would never do?"

  "That's ridiculous. No, he would never do such a thing."

  "I believe that's all the questions I have for now. Thank you for coming."

  "You're welcome. It's my duty as Russell's mother."

  Prosecutor Gliisky then attempts to cross-examine but Mai Yung is too smart to allow him to punch holes in her story. Added to that is the fact he has no statements to point out prior inconsistencies, no police reports to show inconsistencies between what she said and what the police say—none of the normal tools of the cross-examiner. He finds—quickly—that he cannot trick her and that she will not yield an inch from her prior testimony. So he quits ten minutes after he begins, and Mai is dismissed from the courtroom.

  I next call to the witness stand the proprietor of the DNA laboratory in Moscow who performed our DNA tests. He confirms that Mai and I are Russell's biological parents. Short and sweet—nothing more is needed. There are no questions on cross-examination.

  I'm now faced with the most difficult question the criminal defense lawyer ever faces: do I let the defendant testify? Most defendants are anxious to testify; most would slip the noose around their neck and step onto the gallows without encouragement if I allowed them to testify. That's how difficult it is to tell an intelligent, impenetrable story to a jury. And a word to the wise: let your defendant slip up and show he was misleading or lying on even the smallest point—even something as tiny as someone's hair color or their age—and the jury will immediately stop whatever it is they're doing and find him guilty on the spot. They do not tolerate untruths back in the jury room. Not even the innocent kind. So beware; you have been warned, I like to tell my new associates.

  Over the lunch break I visit the prisoner holding cells and speak with Rusty. When I'm sure we're alone and I've scanned the cell with my scanner, I nod at him. He immediately erupts.

  “I’m stunned, Mr. Gresham. You’re my father? Really?”

  “We all thought it was better left unsaid.”

  “Better for who? My whole life is a lie!”

  “I can’t apologize enough to you. But can we do this later? We don’t have much time right now.”

  His professional side returns. “I’m sorry. Of course. Go ahead.”

  "You know, Rusty, the truth of the case is heavily slanted against you. And there is much the prosecutors and FSB have against you."

  "But my mother she was—"

  "Her testimony is fresh in your mind. Give that the weight it deserves at this moment. Let's look at it in context. The forensics lab puts your boots at the scene. They took molds and compared them to your boots. That was very effective evidence against you. The guards who testified you confessed to them—that is very strong. Then there is Anna Petrov herself. She was forced to incriminate you with her confession even though we showed it was beaten out of her. You also have Nurayov himself. He was likable enough and he puts you inside his home after cutting the glass out of his sliding door. That was very damaging. And all the photographs: the glass in the snow, the cutaway sliding door, the bootprints in the snow, the ejected bullet casings, the tire tracks up at the nut trees, your arrest not long after at the green house. You were there at the green house and there were just too many witnesses to dispute that. No, I thin
k at this point I would rather you stand down, Russell. I'm going to go in and tell Anna the same thing when I finish up with you."

  "I will go with your feelings. You're the expert, Michael."

  "Thank you. You might hate me for it but you might also love me for it. We'll just have to see."

  "All right. Then we're done in there?"

  "We're done."

  We chat another few minutes then I have the guards let me out of Russell's holding cell and let me into Anna's holding cell.

  We hug and she holds on tight.

  "How are you holding up?"

  She shrugs. "Not good. I cry a lot. My body hurts. The guards make fun of me. My cellmates want to have sex with me."

  "The women you're in with?"

  "Please, Michael."

  "All right. It was a dumb thing for me to say. Anyway, what are your thoughts on taking the stand to testify?"

  "I've already taken the stand and testified. I don't want to ever go through that again."

  "I don't have a mother here to help you, you know?"

  "Yes, and why is that?"

  "You know why. Your mother is an FBI agent. It wouldn't work so well to bring her here."

  "I know. I was being facetious, Michael."

  "Oh. So, no testimony from Anna?"

  "No," she says. "Not today. Maybe not ever."

  "And you're good with that?"

  "Sink or swim, I'm good with that."

  And so we left it at that.

  We report to the court at one o'clock that we are resting our case. The jury looks relieved. They have been attentive—even rapt—during Mai's testimony, but the DNA stuff bored them to death and they've been casting furtive glances at the courtroom doors ever since. So they're ready to vote and go home.

  By one-thirty, the jury has the case and I'm waiting with Mai and Antonia in the hallway just outside the courtroom. We tell our stories and make our estimates of the jury for the first hour, then we fall silent, lost in our thoughts.

  At three-thirty we are summoned back inside the courtroom. The jury has sent out a question, the judge tells the parties. He tells us he's going to read it: "Are we allowed to set the punishment if we find the defendants guilty or does the court do it?"

  "I'm going to send a message to them that advises them punishment is the province of the court and not of the jury's. That potential punishments have no place in their deliberations."

  "Agreed," says Gliisky, who's all but rubbing his hands together gleefully from the question.

  My heart has fallen but I know I have to answer. "I think the court can tell them that a possible punishment is death by firing squad. Another is life imprisonment at hard labor. At least tell them something substantive."

  The judge explodes in laughter at my suggestion. He waves a hand at me, the brushoff, which he has done several times during our trial. I'm ready to shout something equally deprecating to him, but manage to hold my tongue. This is Russia, after all, I remind myself. This isn't Chicago where you pay a fine for contempt. This is Russia where you go to a work camp in Siberia.

  "I will send my message, counsel. You can send yours in person once the trial is completed. Assuming you're still free," he says with an evil grimace.

  Tell them what? There are no closing arguments in Russian trials. I never did get a chance to speak to the jury from the heart. They never did get a chance to know me or Russell. Maybe if I'd known ahead of time there would be no closing arguments I would have let Russell testify after all. But Van wasn't there to guide me through these intricacies and I realized too late that there would be no closing allowed. This was a crushing blow; I always need desperately to talk freely to the jury before they retire to deliberate. Closing arguments are why we go to law school, so we can be the great, verbal Daniel Websters of our time, the Clarence Darrows of the Twenty-First Century. But not this time, not in Russia.

  I stride boldly to the rear of the courtroom once we're in recess again. I demand to be let inside the defendants' box to speak to my clients. The guard, who doesn't understand a word of my English demands, for some reason pulls out a key and unlocks the outer door. Once I'm in the airlock he enters a code into the keypad and the inner door opens wide.

  "Sorry, guys, no closing argument," I tell them. "I really missed that opportunity."

  "Why no closing argument?" Petrov asks.

  "It's just not part of their legal system," I tell her. I don't know anything beyond that. I really don't.

  "But they were asking about punishment," Russell says, his voice full of doom and gloom. "That's very bad."

  I can only agree. "It isn't good, I agree. Frankly, I'm very frightened. I wish Van had lived long enough to accompany us through this final day."

  "What did happen to him?" Petrov wants to know.

  "Somebody shot him. Nobody's saying anything. I tried calling the military police but they had no English in their station so I got nowhere."

  Just then there is a rap on the door. The same guard is pointing animatedly to the front of the courtroom. I look up and see the judge has returned, Gliisky is back at counsel table, and the judge is waving me forward. The guard quickly opens the door and pushes me from behind, shoving me toward the front of the courtroom. I turn to glare but he is already stone-faced, impassive, standing at attention and totally beyond anything I might have to say to him. So I proceed down the aisle and take my seat at the judge's feet.

  "Gentlemen, we have a verdict, I'm told. The bailiff will return the jury to the courtroom and have them take their seats."

  Minutes pass by and then the jurors start filing in one by one. I try to make eye contact but no one returns my pleading look. Not one of them looks at me.

  The jury passes the verdict to the judge who holds it at almost arm's length, then suddenly draws it near and reads a second time, his face turning red. "This is your verdict?" he asks the jury.

  They all answer the same way and the translator confirms: it is their unanimous verdict.

  The judge's shoulders sag as he reads, "We find the defendants not guilty of all charges."

  There is no reaction in the courtroom. That's another thing. You don't react in Russian courtrooms to anything that happens. You react only at risk of going straight to jail. Have you noticed? Everything here results in jail, possibly.

  But I cannot suppress my grin. And my smile. I turn and see Russell and Anna standing and embracing and bouncing up and down together.

  "Your Honor, when may my clients be released from custody?"

  "Immediately," the judge replies. "Guards, turn those prisoners loose."

  No waiting around to be processed out like in American courts. Just BAM! and you're free.

  And they are. I meet them halfway up the aisle as they're coming toward me. We embrace. There are many tears and sobs. Mai comes across from the spectator rows and joins us. She wraps her son in her arms and cries, wracking cries, against his shoulder while he pats her back and soothes her. Then it’s Antonia’s turn, but she very wisely only shakes his hand. She is his lawyer in here, not his wife.

  I take Anna in my arms and we both hold on and pray this isn't some kind of monstrous joke, that they're really going to get to leave this terrible, repressive place.

  But it's no joke. An hour later we're all in my hotel room after we crowded into a small Lada taxi and came here together.

  I'm sure the CIA is marshaling its agents to come and take Russell and Anna in for debriefing, but for the next little while they're with us. I pass around the room service menu and Mai writes down their orders. I call it down. There are more tears and lots of laughter and shivering as we realize how close we've all come to the razor's edge.

  Chapter 41

  Michael Gresham

  We have eaten and are hoisting glasses of champagne when a knock comes at the door. I look at Russell and Petrov. They nod at me. It is the CIA, their look says, come to collect them up. Russell says he'll get the door and he does. He returns minutes l
ater. "We're needed, Anna," he tells his partner. She gathers their things and they leave together, but not until Russell says goodbye to his mother, who is leaving tomorrow. "I'll see you before then," he promises her. She acquiesces.

  Then it is just the three of us: Antonia, Mai, and me. We talk for awhile. Antonia, maybe a half hour later, excuses herself saying she wants to return to her room to shower and change. "Time to ditch the suit," she says with a smile, but we all know. She's leaving Mai alone with me for whatever we need to do.

  No sooner is the door closed than I have her in my arms.

  "Leave China. Stay with me," I beg.

  "I could never do that. I have other children, Michael. Grandchildren. And I have Zhang Wei. I could never hurt him like that."

  "I know that. But I wanted to say it. I wanted you to know that I would spend the rest of my life with you in a second if you changed your mind."

  She pushes me back. "I won't change my mind. Now let's take a walk. I want to talk about Russell and you."

  It turns out she wants me to resist becoming a part of Russell's life. We are standing in front of the GUM store, avoiding being trampled by shoppers when she says this to me. I move us to the curb and hail a taxi. As I do, I realize there are tears in my eyes. Perhaps it's exhaustion, now that the trial is over and the real feelings of exhaustion and terror at what we've just been through can surface. Or perhaps it's the thought of Russell's mother asking me to stay out of his life. Or maybe it's all those things; I don't know. But my hand trembles as I reach for the cab and pull open the door.

  We arrive back at the Marriott ten minutes later. Mai tells me she's going to the gift shop, that she has to take sweatshirts and the like to her children and grandchildren. She's even brought a bag to hold those things to be checked through on her flight.

  So I return to my room and let myself in.