12 Page #9

And vote that the accused

is not guilty.

You won't change again?

I can write...?

What do you mean?

It's my final decision.

Based on principle.

Thanks to principles like that

we'll wake up one day

surrounded by green berets

restoring order,

and foreign speech.

I don't understand why

you're insulting me.

You changed your mind

just like I did.

No, pal, not like you did.

He just described a very clear plan,

and how it works.

It's one criminal scheme.

It's not just one.

The scheme is everywhere.

What scheme?

When the big fish don't

give a thought to the little people,

who have to get by

however they can.

By their own rules.

It's like that everywhere.

In construction, in hospitals,

and in cemeteries.

What do cemeteries

have to do with it?

Have you ever buried anyone?

Me?

Yes, I have.

Two years ago.

In London. Matilda.

Who was she?

A Rottweiler.

That's not a name.

It's a breed of dog.

I don't know how they bury dogs

in London,

but I do know how we see people off

on their final journey.

I've been a cemetery director for 8 years.

Now, imagine this.

You're burying a loved one.

A funeral service, the usual.

You go to the graveyard.

- Like this.

- What are you...? What grave?

- That's mom.

- Sorry.

My mom's there.

- Well, it's...

- My mom.

The final farewell, relatives.

And some old lady standing nearby.

She looks into the grave

and says "Oh God, that poor man".

They say "What is it?"

They look, the grave's flooded.

How can that be?

What can they do? You can't

put your loved one in a swamp.

And the old granny whispers advice.

They go to the head gravedigger,

who's there.

They say:
"Sir, there's water in there.

Please do something".

He gives them some line

about ground water

and he shovels the liquid

out of the grave.

But it runs back in. They're in shock.

The old lady tugs at someone's sleeve

and shows them another grave nearby,

that's completely dry.

And pristine.

Now here's the interesting part.

The relatives ask the digger,

"Listen is there any way

we can change places?"

"Are you crazy?"

They're burying someone there

in 15 minutes.

No way. All the paperwork's done"

They get on their knees, in tears;,

"Sir, please help us. We'll pay.

Just tell us how much".

The rest is easy.

He looks at their clothes.

For you, 2000 bucks.

For someone else, 500. If they're poor

he won't even look at them.

They swap stones.

The dead guy gets a dry grave

The family leaves.

The old lady gets 500 rubles

They pull out the plastic sheet from

under the grave

and in 15 minutes it's dry.

And the diggers are ready

to rig up another wet grave.

That's it.

I'm glad we cremated

my mother in law.

Very interesting.

Why are you looking at me?

Is it different where you work?

Everyone's in on it. Everyone.

In their own way.

Right, friend?

Rolex?

Yeah.

Expensive.

Well, yeah.

On your cemetery pay?

Yes...

...on my cemetery pay. I won't lie

But I also used that cemetery pay

to restore the chapel.

And I feed the bums who

hang around the cemetery.

They have to eat somewhere.

And I built a school in the town

where I was born, 830 km from Moscow.

It has a gym... come visit,

you'll see.

And we don't have monstrosities,

like that pipe.

My pipes are underground,

where they should be.

There's a computer lab with

LCD screens.

Local teachers, all with

good salaries.

We have a bus to bring kids

from farther away.

And take them home, of course.

So they don't have time

to sniff glue.

And if you ask

the people in the village:

"Where'd the money to build this

school come from?"

They couldn't care less where

the money came from,

as long as the school stays

up and running.

So I use money from the dead

to help the living.

Since nobody else is going to.

In short, the Chechen is not guilty.

Still, can you explain to me,

an almost sane person,

why that simple woman,

who is not part of any scheme,

testified in court

that the Chechen

killed the Russian officer

Volodya with a knife?

I know why.

You can yell at me.

You can laugh. But I know.

- It was jealousy.

- What?

Jealousy,

She didn't hear the boy,

she lives across the street.

She didn't see anything either

because it was night time.

At best, she saw some shadows,

though I doubt it.

She didn't see anything.

She was convinced that it was the boy

and no one else,

because she wanted

and was prepared to see

the worst in him.

Why?

Jealousy.

Terrible,

senseless, female jealousy.

Look at these photos.

She showed them in court.

To prove that she knew the victim.

Here's a photo of them at a party.

Her, the deceased, and his wife.

Now here's one...

...of her, him, and someone's arm.

It's his wife's arm.

Why did she need to go

and crop the photo

so it only shows her

and the deceased?

Cutting out the wife.

This is a photo of her dream.

What happens next is very simple:

A single woman,

childless, who dreams of finally

having her own family.

She likes the man from across the street,

but he's married.

She writes him in Chechnya,

tells him his wife's cheating.

- Can I see?

- Sure, here.

And that she's sorry,

but she couldn't keep quiet.

True or not,

she did write him the letter.

It was jealousy.

She engineered his divorce.

That was it!

No more obstacles.

Just her and him, like the photo.

All she had to do was

wait for his return.

The return of her beloved.

And he arrives, but not alone.

He's with a nasty, filthy

savage monkey

who can hardly speak Russian.

Remember, she said she asked him

what his plans were?

And he just replied

that he planned to live with the kid

and take care of him.

That was it. All her hopes, ruined.

But she kept it up.

Remember, she said she invited him over.

With the boy. For her birthday.

She made dinner, bought sweets,

and a book.

Later she discovered

that some money was missing

from next to where

that poor boy was sitting.

And she tried to convince him

to return it.

Eventually she admitted in court

that she had put it somewhere else

and forgot.

But, at the time, she mentions

the money

in front of a combat vet

who'd been wounded.

She must have known

what could happen.

And did happen, of course.

The man hears that the kid

he considers his son is a thief.

And he loses control of himself.

He smacks the boy, but she's silent.

And when his nose bleeds

she leaps to his defense

and says the boy's innocent.

Or rather, he's guilty,

but shouldn't be hit.

Because children are weaker,

you shouldn't hurt them.

God!

She didn't lie.

She wanted to believe

the murderer was the boy

and no one else.

Jealousy.

Senseless, cruel,

blind, instinctive

female jealousy.

That's it.

Right there.

She found the money later,

she said so herself.

I live with my son.

He's twenty now, but back then, in"91

he was six.

In 1990 my wife left me.

She ran off with a guy from the States.

The hell with her...

The kid was upset, of course,

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