Page 69 of Forced Bratva Kidnapped Virgin
He rose from the gallery, stiff and uneasy as he walked toward the stand, guided by the bailiff.
“Please, raise your hand,” the bailiff said to him. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.” He nodded.
The bailiff stepped aside, and the witness sat on the chair, sweat glistening on his forehead.
He didn’t want to do this before; the man was terrified of Vika and of what the Bratva would do to him. It wasn’t until after I assured him that someone whose rank was way higher than Vika was willing to protect him that he agreed to testify.
My heels clicked against the floor as I approached him. “Mr. McCall, could you state your full name for the record?”
He cleared his throat, tense. “Isaac. Isaac McCall.”
I flipped through the file in my hand. “It says here that you’re a former employee of Mr. Viktor Tarasov. Correct?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“In what department did you offer your services?”
“Logistics,” he answered. “I used to handle transportation routes, shipments…stuff like that.”
“Interesting.” I paused for a second, stealing a glance back at Vika. “How long did you work for Mr. Tarasov before you quit?”
“About four and a half years or so.”
“And whydidyou quit?”
A pause.
I could see the way he struggled not to look in Vika’s direction.
“Because I found out the nature of the operations I was assisting with.”
I looked at the judge, then the jury, before returning my gaze to him. “Could you shed more light on that? Explain to the court what you mean.”
He paused again, longer this time.
“Are you under duress, Mr. McCall?” the judge asked him.
“No, Your Honor,” he answered.
“Then answer the question,” she said, looking right at him as though he was wasting her time.
“It was never cargo as they told me,” he answered. “The merchandise I was moving was people—women. Mostly young girls.”
Murmurs rose from the gallery, a bit noisier this time.
“Order!” the judge called.
Voices fell silent.
“Who authorized those operations, Mr. McCall?” I asked him.
He paused, wiping the sweat on his forehead. “Viktor Tarasov.”
Across the courtroom, Vika’s expression turned ugly, his fingers clenching into fists.
A small, self-satisfied grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. “That’ll be all. No further questions, Your Honor.” I walked back to my table, confident and proud.
