SEVEN
It’s a week since the Sunrise was stormed, two days since they landed in Murmansk.
Across the city the activists are woken by policemen and taken out to prison transport vehicles. They’re called avtozaks – vans with tiny compartment cells so small that the prisoners’ knees are pressed against the wall in front of their noses. And this is how the thirty are taken to court to learn their fate.
The Russian men arrive first – Roman Dolgov, the photojournalist Denis Sinyakov and Andrey Allakhverdov, the ship’s fifty-year-old chief press officer. They’re locked in a holding cell. Their lawyer comes in. He tells them Putin has been talking about the case. The President said they’re ‘obviously not pirates’,[8] but Putin also claimed the commandos couldn’t have known the Sunrise crew were genuine environmental activists, that the authorities had grounds to suspect the campaigners were using Greenpeace as a cover for more sinister motives.
The door opens, a guard appears.
‘Sinyakov?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s time.’
Denis is led away. He isn’t worried, he assumes the hearing is a formality and he’ll soon be free. At the police station where they were held, the officers went to the shop and bought him toothpaste, a hairbrush and shampoo. And when he left the station for the court this morning they gave him a meal in a box. Cops in Russia are never this pleasant. Denis is confident it will soon be over.
He’s locked in a cage in the courtroom. He’s familiar with the set-up. As one of Russia’s leading photojournalists he’s covered the most celebrated trials in his country’s recent history. He was only on the ship to photograph the protest, but now it’s him in the dock.
The hearing starts. He looks at the judge, a middle-aged guy, fifty-five maybe. And he’s seen this judge so many times. Not this man exactly, but this type. The man’s eyes betray complete disinterest in the case. It was the same at the Pussy Riot trial. It was just like this in the courtroom with Mikhail Khodorkovsky – the oligarch prosecuted on trumped-up charges after he challenged Putin.
Now Denis is worried.
The prosecutor speaks. Denis’s lawyer responds. The judge looks bored. When he does speak – to deliver his verdict – the judge does so without emotion, mumbling his way through a text on a sheet of paper in front of him. There is no trace of feeling in his voice, it’s like he’s reading from the telephone directory, but his final words explode in Denis’s face.
‘…therefore the accused is jailed for two months while the authorities investigate the criminal attack on the oil platform.’
Denis grips the bars of the cage. He’s staring at the judge, shaking his head. A guard opens the door, handcuffs him and leads him out of the courtroom and back to the holding cell. Andrey and Roman look up.
‘Well?’
‘Two months.’
Roman jumps to his feet, but before he can process the news, a guard is leading him out of the cell. He’s taken to the courtroom, where he’s told he will be jailed for two months while the investigation continues, and for ten to fifteen years if he’s convicted.
Downstairs, a van holding the women parks at the back entrance of the courthouse, and one by one, their hands cuffed behind their backs, they jump out and are led up the stairs towards the holding cells.
Half an hour later Kieron, Frank and Cristian step out of an avtozak, surrounded by guards. One of them flashes a lopsided smile and says, ‘Welcome to Russia.’ Frank looks around. The place is swarming with heavily armed soldiers and policemen. They really are taking this seriously, he thinks. They’re taken to a holding cell. Inside are French Canadian activist Alexandre ‘Po’ Paul and electrician David Haussmann, whose partner back home in New Zealand is pregnant.
‘You guys all right?’ Frank asks. ‘No offence, Po, but you look terrible.’
Po-Paul shakes his head slowly.
‘I’ve got some really bad news.’
‘What? What’s happened?’
‘It’s jail.’
‘Oh, piss off,’ Frank says, laughing. ‘Not the time for jokes.’
‘Seriously. We’re all getting sent down.’
Frank stares at him, biting his lip, then he looks at Kieron, whose mouth has dropped open.
‘I’ve just been in court,’ says Po. ‘They’ve given me two months’ detention, minimum. For piracy.’
Frank is ashen-faced. ‘Jesus, seriously?’
‘Yeah.’
Kieron slides down the wall. He grips his shins and buries his face into his knees, then looks up at Frank and Po-Paul and says, ‘Guys, we have to make sure we’re in cells together. We can cope with anything then. We can protect each other.’
And Po-Paul says, ‘I’ve read books on this. You’ve got to go into your cell and if there’s a weaker person than you, you have to just beat the crap out of him.’
Kieron shakes his head. Po-Paul’s got a dark sense of humour, and right now it’s not helping.
One by one the activists are taken from holding cells and led to the courtroom to be told they’re going to prison. Alex gulps back tears and rubs her eyes. She’s staring at the judge, barely able to take it in. The man has a fat neck, he’s wearing tinted glasses and is draped in a black gown with silver buttons below the chin. He’s sitting at a raised dais, leaning back in the middle of five high-backed leather chairs.[9] The judge doesn’t once look at Alex, instead he stares down at his desk or occasionally looks at the officer from the Investigative Committee, who tells the court Alex could interfere with evidence unless she’s jailed. A translator is standing next to the cage, whispering the words to her in English, but Alex is barely listening. All she can think of is her family back home in Devon. She knows how hard this will hit her mother, and she just wishes she could speak to her and explain why she was on that ship.
Next, Camila is brought to court and jailed, then Phil and Kieron. By now the hearings are overrunning. Under Russian law if a defendant isn’t processed within two days of their arrest, they have to be released. The crew were officially arrested at the port on Tuesday evening, and now the authorities are in danger of missing the forty-eight-hour deadline.
Frank is taken from the holding cell and led down a corridor, and as he passes one of the cells he hears a voice shout out, ‘You’ve got some fucking questions to answer, Frank. It’s your fault we’re getting sent down.’ He twists his head but the guard prods him and he keeps on walking, and a minute later he’s being locked in a cage in the courtroom. An officer from the Investigative Committee, dressed in a brilliant blue uniform with gold stars on his shoulders, stands up and reads out the case against the defendant. He says there was a violent attack on the oil platform. The authorities had no way of knowing if the activists were terrorists. Then the prosecutor stands up and nods gravely.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘from the evidence, we can see that this is a very serious accusation. Very serious indeed. And it’s clear – I have to say, it’s very clear indeed – that the evidence is overwhelming.’
Then Frank’s lawyer stands up, tapping his watch and speaking quickly in Russian. Frank doesn’t understand what’s going on, but then the lawyer comes back to the cage and explains. Time has run out, he says. The deadline has passed. It’s too late for the judge to send Frank to jail now, but rather than releasing him the judge has beaten the clock by ruling that the hearing should be postponed. Frank will be returned to the naval base then brought back to court in three days.
After him come Dima, Sini and five others. They all have their cases postponed. They’ll be taken back to their cells at the police stations.
