Aleksandr Podrabinek

25 April 2025

by Aleksandr Podrabinek

Source: Slovo zashchite

Trials closed to the public and the press are nothing new. This practice is typical of despotic regimes that wish to appear civilised while maintaining tight control over the judicial process. Such control is particularly evident in the prosecutorial bias of political trials – a bias all too visible to any public observer in the courtroom. The simplest solution? Shut the courtroom doors so no one can witness this disgraceful form of justice.

Authorities find various pretexts to do this. Even at the pre-trial stage, a document marked as “secret” can be attached to the case, providing grounds for declaring the entire trial closed to the public. That’s how the case of Vladimir Kara-Murza was handled. Of course, only the part of the trial relating to the “secret” document should have been closed – especially since the document had only a tenuous connection to the case – but such details are usually disregarded by the court. The main goal is to find a pretext that appears legal.

A trial may also be closed on the grounds of alleged threats against one of the participants – say, the prosecutor. This was the approach taken in a recent Moscow trial of Antonina Favorskaya and three other journalists. To add a sense of drama, the prosecutor was escorted around the courthouse by two police officers carrying automatic rifles – as if something truly grave were at stake. An even easier route is to claim threats against witnesses, especially anonymous ones – how could you possibly prove there were no threats if you don’t even know who the witnesses are?

Article 123 of the Russian Constitution states that “all court hearings shall be open,” except in cases provided for by federal law. This conveniently allows federal law to override the Constitution. A trial can be closed “on legal grounds” in cases involving state secrets, when the defendant is under 16, or when the charges involve sexual offences. Proceedings may also be closed to prevent the disclosure of intimate or private matters. Likewise, “in absentia” criminal trials are not permitted – except, again, where federal law allows it. In other words, it’s generally forbidden – but if they really want to, they’ll find a way.

Often, courts stage “semi-closed” trials. Hearings are held in small rooms (sometimes just large offices), and bailiffs admit only 10-15 people, leaving dozens in the corridor. Officially, the trial is “open,” but in reality, this makes a mockery of transparency.

Closed trials of political dissidents were common practice in the USSR. During mass repressions, trials were mostly held in the absence of the accused. In later Soviet times, trials were officially “open,” but the public wasn’t even allowed into the courthouse. At best, a defendant’s family members might be permitted to attend – but even that was not always allowed.

The Soviet authorities feared public exposure of their abuses. Sometimes the situation bordered on the absurd. At my own “open” trial in 1978, the Moscow Regional Court’s verdict was stamped “secret.” That verdict circulated through the cells of our pre-trial detention centre, causing great astonishment – until the prison authorities got wind of it. I was summoned with the verdict to the special department, where they cut off the top of the first page with a pair of large scissors to remove the shameful stamp.

At the time, lawyers acting for the defence in political trials played a vital role in ensuring at least some degree of transparency. They defended their clients not only in court, but also outside it. After hearings, they would go out to speak to friends of political prisoners waiting behind police barricades, and to foreign journalists, sharing everything they had seen and heard. They weren’t afraid, though they had much to lose. Many were prevented from handling political cases in the future or were expelled from the legal profession altogether. Yet they remained true to their professional duty – in and out of court.

Sadly, today’s Russian legal profession rarely lives up to that standard. Lawyers are so intimidated by the threat of professional reprisals – and by seeing their colleagues prosecuted – that they shy away from speaking out, even when the law permits it. Leaving the courtroom, they refuse to tell journalists or the public anything about the proceedings, citing a mythical ban on disclosure. Yet Article 310 of the Russian Criminal Code penalises only the disclosure of pre-trial investigation materials. These materials make up only a minor part of court proceedings – and even then, they’re often referenced only by name, or read out in part or in full.

Everything else – speeches by the prosecution and defence, statements by the defendant, motions by the parties, expert testimony, witness accounts, questions from the judge – can be freely repeated and commented on. These are not pre-trial materials, and there is no criminal liability for sharing them. Let alone describing the courtroom atmosphere or the behaviour of participants.

Still, most lawyers remain silent. It’s understandable – Russia is not a rule-of-law state, and people are punished more by arbitrary power than by due process. But disregard for professional standards – in the legal field, in journalism, and in other vital areas of public life – only drags us deeper into the swamp of lawlessness. Every concession we make, whether out of fear or self-interest, becomes a tool the authorities use to further entrench authoritarian rule.

Translated by James Lofthouse