One might think that as Russia entered the twenty-first century, the government would have stopped this type of behavior. But when Vladimir Putin came to power in 2000, instead of dismantling this machine of lying and fabrication, he modified it and made it all the more powerful.
Sergei Magnitsky’s murder would become the prime example of this approach, and we had a unique opportunity to see how every gear and piston in this machine worked.
On the morning of November 17, 2009, hours before sunrise, Sergei’s mother, Natalia, made her weekly trip to the Butyrka detention center to deliver a parcel of food and medicine to her son. She assembled with the other prisoners’ family members at a small side entrance at 5:30 a.m. They arrived early because the prison accepted items only between 9:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. on Tuesdays. If Natalia missed that window, she would have to wait until the following week. Since most prisoners couldn’t survive without these parcels, Natalia was never late.
The line moved slowly that morning. Natalia jostled with the fifty or so other family members in the narrow, dank passageway that led to the desk where two prison officers accepted the parcels. She finally made it to the front of the line at 9:40 a.m. She handed the prison officer a form listing the items she was delivering.
The woman looked at the form and shook her head officiously. «That prisoner is no longer at this facility. He was moved to Matrosskaya Tishina last night».
«To the hospital there?» Natalia asked nervously. Given Sergei’s frail appearance at the court hearing a few days before, she was worried about his health and hoped that he hadn’t had some kind of emergency.
«I don’t know», the officer said sternly.
Natalia tucked Sergei’s parcel under her arm and hurried out. She hopped on the Metro and arrived at the parcel desk at Matrosskaya Tishina at 10:30 a.m. Fortunately, only three people were in line there. When she got to the desk, she said to the attendant, «I was told my son Sergei Magnitsky is here».
Without looking at a logbook or typing his name into a computer, the prison official responded, «Yes, he was transferred here last night in very bad condition».
Natalia started to panic. «Is he O'kay? What’s happened to him?»
The attendant didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then she said, «I’m afraid not. He died at nine last night».
Natalia shrieked. «W-w-what? What happened?»
«He died of pancreonecrosis, rupture of the abdominal membrane, and toxic shock», the attendant said in a monotone. «I’m very sorry for your loss». Natalia started to shake, but she couldn’t move her feet. She leaned against the desk as this news hit her. Tears welled in her eyes.
«Woman, please step aside. I need to take care of the next person in line», the attendant said coldly.
Natalia couldn’t even look at her.
«You need to step aside», the attendant repeated, and pointed to a hard plastic chair against the wall. Natalia followed her finger and shuffled to the chair, the other people in line staring at her, none of them sure what to do.
Natalia collapsed into the seat and broke down. After a few minutes she pulled herself together just long enough to call Sergei’s lawyer, Dmitri, whose office was nearby. When Dmitri got there fifteen minutes later, Natalia was no longer able to speak. Dmitri took charge and asked for the doctor on duty. A few minutes later, a man in a lab coat appeared. He repeated the cause of death and said that Sergei’s body had been transferred to Morgue No. 11, and if they wanted to know anything more, they should go there.
That morning my home phone rang at 7:45, 10:45 a.m. in Moscow. I picked up. It was Eduard, speaking in hasty Russian. I passed the phone to Elena. She listened. She gasped. Tears filled her eyes. Then she began to scream. Not in Russian, not in English, just a primal howl. I had never heard anyone make a sound like that in my life.
When she told me that Sergei had died, I jumped up and turned circles like a wild animal caught in a cage.
Sergei’s death was so far beyond my worst nightmares that I had no idea how to cope. The pain I felt was physical, as if someone were plunging a knife right through my gut.
After a few minutes of hyperventilating, pacing, and choking back tears, I regained enough composure to make some calls. My first was to Vladimir. He always knew what to do, what to say, whom to approach — but not this time. When I told him the news, there was just silence on the other end of the phone. There was nothing he could say. Eventually he whispered meekly, «Bill, this is terrible».
Without showering, I pulled on my trousers, grabbed a shirt, rushed out the front door, and hopped in a cab to go to the office. I was the first to arrive, but within twenty minutes everyone else was there, disheveled and grief-stricken.
In any major crisis, what you do in the first few hours defines it forever. We quickly drafted a press release in English and Russian. With it, we included a forty-page, handwritten document that Sergei had prepared detailing his torture, the withholding of medical attention, and the intense hardship to which the prison authorities had subjected him. We then hit send, hoping and praying that this time people would care.
And this time, everyone did.
Most major newspapers took up the story, and they put calls in to the Russian authorities for comment. The press officer at the Interior Ministry was a plump blond woman in her early forties named Irina Dudukina. Shortly after the calls started coming in, she released the Interior Ministry’s version of events. According to her, Sergei hadn’t died of pancreonecrosis and toxic shock as the prison official had told Natalia earlier, but rather of «heart failure, with no signs of violence».
Later that day Dudukina went further, posting an official statement on the Interior Ministry’s website saying, «There has not been a single complaint from Magnitsky about his health in the criminal case file» and «his sudden death was a shock for the investigators».
This was completely untrue. Not only were there many complaints in his case file, but there were also specific refusals from Major Silchenko and other senior officials denying him any medical attention.
Dudukina also lied about the time and place of Sergei’s death. She claimed that Sergei died at 9:50 p.m. on a bed in Matrosskaya Tishina’s emergency room as doctors tried to resuscitate him. This was directly contradicted by the civilian doctor who was first on the scene, who said that Sergei had died around 9:00 p.m. on the floor of an isolation cell.
I had never known Sergei’s mother or wife. My contact had always been either with Sergei directly or, during his imprisonment, with his lawyer, but now his family and I were about to become inextricably linked forever.
I made my first call to his mother, Natalia, on November 17. Vadim translated. I not only wanted to express my most profound condolences, but also to tell her that I felt responsible for what had happened to her son and that she wasn’t alone. It remains one of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had in my life. Natalia was inconsolable. Sergei was her only child and meant everything to her. Every time she started talking, she would break down in tears. I didn’t want to cause her more pain, but I wanted her to know that I was going to step into Sergei’s shoes and look after her and the family. More importantly, I needed to tell her that I was going to make sure that the people who tortured and killed Sergei would face justice, and I wouldn’t rest until they did.