and says: "Yes, dad." And hides his eyes.
I punished him.
One day I'd had enough,
I don't remember what she told me
but I just snapped.
I busted into his room
dragged him out of bed,
punched him.
She's quiet.
Then her nose starts bleeding.
She screams.
"Murderer! Murderer! What are you doing?!
You're killing the child!"
And it started.
I'd beat him...
She'd see the blood and scream.
It was brutal.
And my boy, it was as if
he was expecting it.
He stopped crying.
He'd just blink and smile,
blink over and over, but not cry.
He didn't cry.
I punch him.
His face is bloody.
And he keeps blinking and smiling.
Blinking and smiling.
One night I woke up.
I heard water running.
I go to the bathroom,
he's washing his sheet
He had pissed his bed.
That kid...
He sat in the corner
hugging the sheet.
Looking at me and smiling.
Smiling.
Blinking and smiling.
It was like he was always guilty.
That look, and that smile.
He'd look at me...
And I was right in a way,
But in my soul, deep down...
It was like someone made me
my own son's executioner.
Then she had a baby, also a boy.
He was about four.
He acted up in front of me.
I gave him a little smack.
And bam!
God help me...
I barely got away. She threw an iron,
it just missed me.
I could slug my own son,
but I just barely touched hers,
and she nearly killed me.
She and the kid went to
her relatives in Tambov.
I was working nights.
I had already left the building
when I turned around.
It was like someone grabbed me
by the collar.
I saw a light in the window.
I ran to the apartment.
I look all over, can't find him.
It's 3am.
I hear a rustling in the closet.
I open the closet.
And he's sitting there.
Smiling and looking at me.
And blinking.
Blinking, over and over.
I say: "Son, what are you doing?"
I pull him out of the closet.
I hold him. He holds me tight.
He looks at me, smiling and blinking,
and he's got something behind his back.
I say: "Son, what's that?"
And I take his hand.
Like that. His hand.
And he's holding a noose.
A noose he made from my belt.
I don't know...
...what he saw on my face.
But he grabbed me, hugged me,
pressed himself tight.
And whispered:
"Papa, don't, papa".
"Papa, don't, don't".
Over and over.
"Don't, papa, don't".
And he's smiling.
Smiling and saying: "Papa, don't".
Well...
...I vote...
...the kid is not guilty.
Write it down.
Yes, you know,
that was very persuasive.
I agree, the boy is not guilty.
- Let's vote.
- OK, fine.
Who thinks he is not guilty,
raise your hand.
- Thank God.
- Finally, thank you.
It's unanimous, he's not guilty.
Wait. Let's write it down.
Wait, please. Wait.
Just wait.
I haven't voted yet.
- Well, I hope you'll join us.
- No.
I think
he's guilty.
Eleven for "not guilty"
and one for "guilty".
- Listen!
- I'll explain, I'll explain.
- These artists...
- Why?
- Come on...
- I don't get it.
We only hurt the ones we love...
I knew from the first minute
that he was innocent.
Professional experience.
I agree with all the explanations
we've come up with here.
The old man was obviously scared.
And the woman...
You forgot that she's nearsighted.
She wears glasses. And she claimed
she was sleeping that night.
She had to put on her glasses
and go to the window.
It's not realistic.
And the boy, well, he's from the Caucasus.
They're very different people.
I worked there a few times,
I know them.
He wouldn't yell "I'll kill you!",
he'd just kill you.
And he wouldn't make up
a stupid story.
The rest is obvious.
It was clearly a set up.
Arranged by people
who really need the kid
to go to prison. Right?
We saw that. We proved that
he's innocent.
Right?
But as soon as
we reach that verdict,
they'll let him go.
Of course they will. And?
- That's great.
- And thank God.
Yes, thank God he's not a murderer.
Then what? Why did you
vote to find him guilty?
I don't understand at all.
I have ceased to