Stuart Kaminsky: Blood and Rubles

“The wrong people are standing before me accused of a crime,” said the judge. “Facts. Two men kidnap Alexei Porvinovich from the street and take him to an apartment. The two men work in the garage where the Porvinoviches take their automobile for repair. One of the two men, according to the distraught victim, claims that the kidnapping was planned by the victim’s wife and brother and that he was the wife’s lover. Was the kidnapper lying, perhaps to torment his victim? We do not know. Did the victim create a fantasy of his betrayal by his automobile mechanic, his brother, and his wife? This, too, we do not know. It has been known to happen to distraught victims who fear for their lives. We have only the victim’s word for all of this, since he managed to disarm one of the kidnappers, shoot him, and, by his own words, calmly or not so calmly wait till the other kidnapper returned and then shoot him. His next action was to return home in a state of near madness. Had not a police inspector been present, he may well have murdered his wife and brother. What we have here is an unfortunate situation. It is my understanding that Alexei Porvinovich is under psychiatric care, which he certainly needs. There is no case here. All persons who are part of this unfortunate circumstance are free to go.”

Alexei Porvinovich laughed through his teeth as his wife and brother walked past him and Rostnikov.

“Porvinovich,” Rostnikov whispered.

Porvinovich could not stop laughing.

Rostnikov took his arm.

“You see how well they have learned from me,” Porvinovich said, trying to control his laughter, his lips barely moving. “They’ve bribed the right people.”

The justice looked up from his papers and glared at Porvinovich.

“Clear the hearing room,” the justice said.

Rostnikov led Porvinovich from the room.

“You promised me justice,” said Porvinovich.

“I was wrong,” said Rostnikov.

“I could have shot them, but you stopped me,” said Porvinovich.

Rostnikov had turned the tape of Mrs. Porvinovich’s conversation with Artiom Solovyov over to the justice’s office the day before. He had also indicated that both he and the FBI man were prepared to testify. The justice had made no mention of the tape and did not ask for Rostnikov’s or Hamilton’s testimony.

It was difficult to escape Porvinovich’s accusation of bribery, but, to give the judge his due, he may simply have felt that there was not a sufficient case to bring to trial and that Rostnikov’s and Hamilton’s testimony and the tape would simply further clog the already confused judicial system.

In the corridor outside the hearing room Anna Porvinovich stood waiting. Yevgeniy stood nervously on her right. A tall, good-looking man with teeth as perfect as those of an American movie star stood on her left. Rostnikov thought she looked especially beautiful in her triumph.

“Alexei Porvinovich,” the good-looking man said. “You have two days to remove your belongings from the apartment in which you and your wife have resided. She will meanwhile move to a hotel that will be billed to you. Anna Ivanovna Porvinovich has filed papers of divorce, and we have obtained a court order that does not permit you to come within one hundred yards of your wife or your brother.”

The man handed a confused Porvinovich a substantial folder full of papers.

“Do you understand?” asked the man.

Alexei looked at his wife, whose face revealed nothing. His brother looked down.

Alexei began to laugh again and held up the folder.

The good-looking man guided Anna through the crowd with Yevgeniy a few paces behind.

People looked at the laughing Alexei, but no one stopped.

“Alexei Porvinovich,” Rostnikov said firmly.

“Ah,” said Porvinovich, his eyes wet with tears of laughter. “First she tries to kill me and then she takes everything away from me. I’ve always underestimated her.”

“Let’s go,” said Rostnikov, leading Porvinovich toward the door of the building. “We’ll get some tea and talk about Russian irony. It should take us a century or two.”

“It won’t do them any good,” said Porvinovich, controlling his laughter.

“Why?” asked Rostnikov, wishing they could sit somewhere, anywhere.

“Because I plan to have them killed,” Porvinovich whispered.

And Rostnikov knew that, madness or no madness, the man meant what he was saying.

The twenty-seventh case of the day was heard by the stoop-shouldered justice, who could now barely keep his eyes open. Neither lawyers nor litigants had approached the justice in an attempt to secure a favorable decision. They were poor people quarreling over who had started the fight that resulted in both of them being arrested for assaulting the other. The women screamed at each other before the justice, who checked his watch and decided the day of work had ended. He told the women, both of whom were well over sixty, that since their injuries seemed more or less equal and that it was impossible to determine what the battle was about, there would be no trial recommendation and that they were ordered not to speak to each other again or come within one hundred yards of each other. Though the two women were sisters and lived across the hall from each other, they nodded obediently and left the courtroom quickly.

The justice stood up. Outside the closed courtroom door he could hear the two women arguing as they moved away. The few remaining spectators left. The justice took off his glasses and leaned forward to look at the handwritten decisions of the day. Of the twenty-seven hearings, twenty-two had been dismissed. Four had resulted in pleas of guilt and one, a lunatic who had run amok with a butcher knife in Red Square seeking out foreigners, had been turned over for trial.

At a nearby coffee stand, Rostnikov pushed a cup of something hot and dark to Porvinovich, who drank in thirsty, angry gulps.

“In the 1860s,” Rostnikov said, guiding Porvinovich away from the stand so that others could make their purchases of hot water with the hint of tea or coffee, “Czar Nicholas the First freed the serfs and reformed the courts. No longer were decisions simply handed down by judges who were themselves on the fringes of nobility. There were juries of different sizes with now-free and illiterate serfs and merchants pulled from offices, street markets, and shops. The trials were mad. Jurors screamed out questions about the defendant’s family and political beliefs. Spectators often howled or laughed, and the judges carefully guided the juries when possible to the correct decision.”

Porvinovich seemed to be paying no attention, but Rostnikov went on.

“The system eventually collapsed of its own corruption, to be replaced by a judicial system equally corrupt, and later by the Soviet system, which seemed to return to that of the 1860s. Now … It’s part of a cycle. You were born in the wrong century, Alexei Porvinovich.”

“I should have bribed the justice more than they did,” said Porvinovich.

“You got away with murder,” Rostnikov said.

“Execution, retribution,” said Porvinovich wildly. “But where was justice?”

Rostnikov knew the answer, but he was not about to give it to this man who could not listen.

“Would you like another piece?” Sarah asked the girls.

Both nodded yes. Rostnikov motioned to the waiter in the ridiculous Pizza Hut uniform. The waiter approached.

“How much do I have left on my coupons?”

“Enough for two more pizzas,” the waiter said. “And a Pepsi.”

“Fine,” said Rostnikov, looking at Hamilton, who had expertly disposed of two slices.

The waiter hurried off. The girls were chewing on crusts and nudging each other. At the end of the table Elena and Iosef were consuming the last of their pizza and talking quietly. Elena was smiling as if she had a secret.