to proceed with caution. I could not say outright that Soviet society was governed not by law, but the party that the ideological concept of class struggle ingrained in the minds of most Soviet citizens had produced a psychology of violence in our society at the expense of individual rights.
Social problems, it was assumed, could be solved only by the application of force. Although carrying, making, or supplying guns was forbidden, the ethos of war had dominated all strata of our totally disarmed society. That was the essence of Stalinism— unlimited power over a defenseless people. This social system, shaped for thirty years by Stalin’s dictatorship, had achieved the omnipresence more virulent in the midseventies than ever before. Built on deception and the corpses of Soviet citizens, Stalinism had paralyzed if not killed the nation’s free spirit and its soul and consequently generated a social culture of fear and hatred permeating every person’s life. Compassion and mercy ceased to exist. Suspicion and cruelty ruled.
I couldn’t tell the audience that all of us, Laptev as well as the dead militiaman, were not victims but hostages of that system. It was impossible to tell the truth in a society where neither an independent judiciary nor the concept of a fair trial existed. But I could try to encourage a little free and creative thinking—the only way to resolve social problems. The death penalty for Laptev would not stop the rising crime rate among teenagers. It is psychology of war deeply rooted in social behavior that produces militant actions, not an individual like Laptev.
Tomorrow I would have to find some way to get that message across. But I had some doubts. Would I be able to accomplish this?
When I reached the cultural center the next morning, I was shaken by a sense of an unfolding spectacle, with me as one of the actors in it. In front of the building, armed guards of the internal security force routinely followed everybody with their inquisitive glare. They surrounded the black van used to transport “special cargo.” Black vans on the streets were known to carry prisoners. People called them “black crows.”
The hall was jammed with people, many still looking for seats. Wooden chairs and benches in the first three rows were reserved for witnesses. My eyes immediately found Laptev’s parents, sitting in their shabby dark overcoats, their faces downcast, awaiting the decision that would seal their son’s fate. The place was swollen with tension—no loud voices, no laughter. The dim hall was quietly buzzing, resembling a human hive, full of expectation, order, and respect.
A huge, illuminated stage served as the courtroom. At its center stood a table covered with a green felt cloth with three wooden chairs side by side, the middle for the judge and two on either side for the people’s assessors. A second table and chair for the court reporter sat adjacent to the judge’s table. On the same side, and perpendicular to the judge’s table, was yet another felt-covered table and five chairs, one for the state prosecutor, one for the public prosecutor (who addressed the legal and social aspects of the case respectively), one for a civil plaintiff, and two for medical experts.
Facing all these stood a small table and chair for me, and behind them an enclosed wooden structure, like a cage up to the chest, for the defendant. In a Soviet courtroom, the defense attorney and defendant may not have eye contact or communicate, except with the judge’s permission.
Trouble began immediately. When they brought in Laptev handcuffed, with his dark head bowed, his mother fainted. Laptev’s father tried to lift his wife’s heavy body from the floor, and instinctively I rushed to help since no one else dared to do so. Inhibited by the edge of the stage and unable to find the stairs leading down to the hall, I stood frozen, not knowing what to do.
The presiding judge continued with the trial, reading the documents in the file, as if nothing had happened. The five people at the long table, led by the state prosecutor, pretended to study their papers. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a trembling young voice screamed, “Somebody help my mother!”
The judge stopped reading. All five sitting at the long table raised their heads. Only then did several people get up to assist Laptev’s father and bring a glass of water for the mother. I returned to my table and saw two armed guards, in the green uniform of the internal security force, restrain Laptev. Defeated he took a seat and disappeared behind the wooden structure. The trial resumed.
It took three days to question thirty-seven witnesses. The presiding judge questioned a witness first, and the people’s assessors followed. Those seated at the long table came next. Without any interruption from the judge, both the state and public prosecutors assisted each other in the questioning.
As a rule, the public prosecutor was not a lawyer but a representative of the organization where the defendant worked or studied and usually had a marginal role in the trial, giving an objective view of how his or her peers saw the defendant. In the Laptev case, the public prosecutor affiliated herself completely with the accusatory side and displayed exceptional eagerness and loyalty to the state. A teacher herself, she would be expected to present an objective view of the case, but in reality never did. Moreover, the state and public prosecutors became inseparable—they arrived at the cultural center together each morning, shared lunch, and left together in the evening.
I was the last to cross-examine the witnesses. The judge, bound by his unspoken alliance with the prosecutors, constantly interrupted me. He didn’t like my line of questioning, the subject matter, or the testimony of some witness when it failed to conform to his plan.
The judge had a faithful ally in the court reporter. This woman’s handwritten record would provide the only official document upon which I could base my appeal. I had to argue with the judge for every word beneficial to Laptev in order to include it in this record. Many times the judge tried to twist testimony favorable to the defense, and I had to contend with him to preserve the truth.
It is impossible to describe the tension during the trial. I was exhausted by the end of the third day, fighting for each scrap of favorable testimony. But I had succeeded, at least, in part by having it put on the record.
The fourth day featured closing arguments. The state prosecutor a woman in her forties gave an unremarkable speech with no surprises. For an hour, she tried to convince the teenage audience that the Soviet militia was a respected guardian of public order in a Socialist society, and that every citizen must demonstrate complete obedience to its representatives. She discussed the new law permitting the death penalty, and emphasized the “social dangers” of resistance to the militia. Arguing that such danger justified “an exceptional measure of punishment,” she pointed out the seriousness of resisting the militia. “Such resistance has led to the murder of a militiaman in the line of duty!” she declared.
I had expected her to demand the death sentence, but I had also assumed that she would present legal grounds for such a demand, so I was enraged by her failure to analyze the evidence. My anger gave me strength. I wanted to fight back. The stuffy hall and intense heat from the stage lights no longer bothered me. Rising, I turned my head toward Boris. Behind the wooden structure, I saw only two frightened green eyes.
“Comrades Judges, it is true that cold-blooded murder is the most dangerous crime in our society,” I began. “It is also true that only a court can determine the fact of murder and render judgment. The roles of the two parties, the prosecution and the defense, are delineated by law. We are here to express our legal opinions and help the judges arrive at a just verdict.
“Unfortunately, my opponent did not analyze all the evidence presented in the course of the trial. Instead, she virtually ignored certain testimony. The law requires a prosecutor to present opinions based, not on his or her personal convictions, but on the evidence presented at the trial. Only a deep and thorough analysis of all evidence can lead to a well-founded sentence.”
The first half of my speech was aimed at proving that Boris Laptev did not in fact resist the militia, since he didn’t know that he was dealing with a militiaman. He had no intent or motive to kill. The death had been an accident. I analyzed the circumstantial evidence and the testimony of the five witnesses who had corroborated it. The defendant, I concluded, should be acquitted of the charges.
In the second part of my argument, I was supposed to present my thoughts concerning Soviet society