I sat down in my seat, and Mikhail Borisovich gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. I had done everything I could. Now all that was left was to wait for the decision. But I already knew that I had won. Not in court, no. I had won my own internal battle. I had managed to overcome my fear and fight back. I had regained my dignity. And that was the most important victory.
After my speech, a heavy silence hung in the courtroom. The defendants’ lawyer tried to object, talking about excessive emotionality and a woman’s grudges. But his words sounded unconvincing and pathetic against the backdrop of the truth that had just been spoken. The judge listened to him with a stone face. She announced a recess.
During the recess, I sat on a bench at the far end of the corridor, trying not to cross paths with Igor and his mother. They were whispering furiously with their lawyer about something.
— “You were magnificent, Marina Viktorovna,” — my lawyer said with sincere respect. — “Honest, strong, and to the point. I think it made the right impression on the judge.”
— “What do you think the decision will be?”
— “With a high probability—in our favor. At least regarding the civil claim for the return of the money. The criminal case is more complicated; it requires more solid evidence of intent. But the very fact that we raised this issue has already hit their position hard.”
After the recess, the hearing continued. Finally, the judge announced that she was retiring to make a decision. The wait was agonizing. An hour later, we were invited back into the courtroom.
— “The court, having examined the case materials and heard the parties, concludes that the claims of Volkova Marina Viktorovna are to be partially satisfied. To recover jointly from Volkov Igor Petrovich and Volkova Lyudmila Anatolyevna in favor of Volkova Marina Viktorovna the monetary sum of 570 thousand.”
I exhaled. Justice had prevailed.
— “Regarding the initiation of a criminal case under Article 159 of the Criminal Code,” — the judge continued, — “the court finds it necessary to send the case materials to the prosecutor’s office for an additional investigation to determine the presence of a crime.”
This was a second victory. The case was not closed. It would be investigated further. Lyudmila Anatolyevna, upon hearing the decision, let out a choked groan and began to sink onto the bench. Igor caught her.
The session was over. I walked out of the courtroom, and for the first time in many months, a smile appeared on my face.
The long and tedious enforcement procedure began. It turned out that Lyudmila Anatolyevna had almost no money in her accounts, and her apartment was her only residence. The main burden of the debt fell on Igor. They began to deduct 50% of his income from his salary card.
He was furious. He would call, shouting that I had ruined him.
— “I just took back what was mine, Igor,” — I would reply calmly. — “What you stole from me.”
Lyudmila Anatolyevna didn’t let up either, spreading dirty rumors about me. Several people I considered friends turned away from me. But I didn’t care. I knew the truth.
Meanwhile, the prosecutor’s office conducted an investigation and, to my surprise, opened a criminal case. There was enough evidence. The investigator summoned me for questioning again, this time as a victim.
My father successfully underwent surgery and was slowly but surely recovering. This was the greatest reward for all my suffering. The divorce from Igor was also nearing its conclusion. The court left Mishenka with me and granted Igor standard visitation rights.
One evening, as I was returning from work, Igor was waiting for me at the entrance to my building. He looked terrible—thinner, gaunt.
— “Marina, we need to talk. Withdraw the application. The criminal case. Mom is facing a real sentence. She won’t survive it. She’s a sick woman.”
— “Your mother isn’t sick, Igor. She’s a skilled manipulator. And she must answer for what she did.”
— “But she’s my mother,” — desperation was in his voice. — “I can’t let her go to prison.”
— “And I couldn’t let my father die,” — I cut him off. — “But that didn’t seem to bother you much.”
I walked around him and entered the building. The next few weeks were like a prolonged war of attrition. Igor’s relatives pressured me, urging me to “have pity on the family.” But I remembered my father’s face in the hospital room and knew: I was doing the right thing.
One day my lawyer called me:
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