справедливое разбирательство

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Three more weeks passed, in which nothing happened. How long could the time frame be, in which they were waiting for my appeal against the court's decision? Four weeks? Six weeks? Two months? Five weeks had passed already since the trial and nothing had happened, except for the guards to take me out of my cell, almost every day, to let somebody beat me or waterboard me.
It was a meaningless procedure, since they didn't even care to ask any questions. They knew that I've been out of active government service for years, and that I simply don't have any vital information. But still, that didn't keep them from torturing me. Every other day, different guys were doing it. They seemed to have their fun.

I still wonder what the judge had decided. Not once has somebody talked to me about it. And I also didn't ask. Why not? Was I afraid of the answer, of getting it confirmed that I was only here to wait for the execution of their death sentence? Or afraid of hearing that there was no death sentence and I'd be living like this for the rest of my days, like an animal, trapped in a tiny cage? I can't even say which option I am more afraid of.

Whenever I hear the footsteps approach, I always hope that they don't come to me.
But again, I get disappointed, when they stop right outside the door of my cell. My muscles tense, when I hear the lock being opened. I try to sit up, but yesterdays beatings left some traces. My right side hurts so much that I can't even get up on my own.
So I just remain lying at the ground, watching them come in. They are telling me to get up, unmistakably, even though I don't understand a word of what they are saying. The two guards are here, the ones that are around here most of the time - plus one more today. Usually, they aren't the ones who beat me up or do anything else. They are just usual prison guards, now, expecting me to get up which I obviously can't.

For another few seconds, the guy watches me try, but then he bows down, puts a cuff around my right arm, grabs my shirt and roughly pulls me up. I have a hard time standing on my feet, as they chain my hands behind my back and even my ankles. Two of them are holding my arms, so I can't fall.

Something is different today. Usually there are two guards, not three.

As they are putting a black hood over my head before walking me out of the cell, the thought finally gets me: This could be my execution. The last time ever that they lead me out of this cell.

We're walking down the hallway, this time we don't turn right, but left. They are leading me downstairs, two floors, I realize. I keep counting the steps.
I don't know if I should be happy about this or not. The final end to all the suffering. But then again, I learned to cling to life, like a selfish boy. Every other night I have lain in my cell, staring at Audrey's name on the wall and hoped that I'd get the chance to stay here long enough to atone for my sins, to see her in heaven. 9 weeks of being here, 9 weeks of torture were not enough, by far.
What would these guys say if I fell to my knees in front of them, begging them to keep me alive and not kill me, begging them to keep torturing me? Probably they'd think I'd gone crazy. Or, that I was still hoping to stay alive for long enough so I could flee.

But I couldn't flee anyway. Ever since a few weeks, my body just wasn't up to it any more. I've become way too weak- I can't even walk alone any more, without their support. Today I wasn't even able to get up from the floor.
I've lost a lot of weight in the past weeks. Whenever I looked down on myself I could see my ribs clearly, through my skin.
They feed me, but just enough to stay alive. Maybe, the guards know what kind of a danger I could be for them, if I was still in the right shape for it. I guess they didn't want to take any chances and they were the ones who cut my rations to half or decided to give me nothing at all, even though I should have gotten something to eat.

We stop walking and I hear how they're opening up a door. This is it, this must be it. They lead me inside, and even through the black fabric, I can see that quite a few spotlights must be directed at me. It's bright in here.

They force me to my knees, and one of the guards fixes the chains between my ankles and wrists to a hook which seems to be mounted in the floor.

I can hear voices, but I don't understand one word they are saying. They rip the hood off my head and I try to look around, but aside of the spotlights, I can hardly see anything. One of the guards is still standing next to me, having an eye on me. The others are talking now.

Strange, they usually weren't talking. I guess I haven't even heard the voice of the tiny one up to now.

They are talking to people who are standing behind the spotlights. Judging from the different voices, there must be many people there. I count at least seven different voices, but slowly I'm beginning to see a few contours of persons. There must be ten to twenty. They don't look like government or military. Who the hell are they? Why are the guards, who were so silent all the time, talking to them? About what?

That was the moment when I realized that this wasn't the day of my execution.
The guards were talking to the crowd, and every other few moments I heard the words sto tysyach. One hundred thousand. Dvesti tysyach- two hundred thousand. Pyatsot tysyach. Five hundred thousand. They were bidding. Dva milliona. Two millions. Unmistakably. They were bidding, but I didn't know what they were gathering bids for. For my head? Who were the people, willing to pay such sums, and for what?

Like all the time, my thoughts kept revolving around the same thing: should I be sad or glad that they hadn't brought me to my execution?
Were they selling me, or my head?

I could only kneel there, in the spotlight, waiting for what would happen. Twenty people were standing behind the spotlights, willing to pay to get me into their hands. It was the most frightening experience I ever made, I guess. I couldn't see their faces. I didn't know what they were talking, except for the numbers that they were bidding.
The guards seemed contented with the numbers. The fat guy next to me was smiling by now - his face had started to light up when they reached four million of whatever. I didn't hear the word dollars so it must be rouble, I guess. How much am I worth?

There seem to be a few bidders, willing to pay high prices. They are laughing, I see that some others are pulling back. In the end, only three are left.

And suddenly, the fat guard puts the black hood over my head again and they switch off the spotlights. I guess that they didn't want me to see the bidders.

Desyat millionov. Ten million rouble. That's the last thing I understand - that must be what me head is worth.
They keep talking and I keep listening, but I can't understand anything else than the numbers.

A few minutes later, somebody unties my cuffs from the shackles at the floor. Somebody orders me to get up - in English! It's a voice I've never heard before. It sounds harsh. It has a foreign accent, but not a Russian one. While I am still trying to figure out what accent it was, they're pushing me out of the room, down the hallway again. These are different people, not the guards that I was used to. The guards were normal prison guards. They treated me with at least some kind of respect and human dignity, although they were making me starve and brought me to my tormentors each other day.

But these hands that were now around my upper arms, dragging me along, they were different.
I could feel the hate that these people had, hate against me, that they could hardly hold back, that they could hardly abstain from killing me right away.

Some more doors opened and the cold October wind made me freeze. But not for long.

They shoved me forward, into something. I couldn't see anything so I stumbled and fell. That didn't seem to bother them.

I found myself lying on a cold, wooden floor. Doors get locked behind me and the voices disappear. I must be in some kind of a vehicle, because I can feel that the room that I'm in starts moving.
My hands are still bound behind my back, but the chain in between the cuffs is quite long. Even though it takes me quite some effort, I manage to get my hands to the front and pull the black hood off. No difference. It's so dark in here that I can't even see my own hands. Where are they taking me? To my execution?

I guess took me hours, in the end, hours of crawling around in this room, groping around in the dark to find out where I was: in a sea container. The walls were so typical, made of steel in that unmistakable pattern. I was being shipped - whoever these people were: they had bought me.

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