Judgment of Justice

The trial of Chanturia and Kostava did not take place in the Supreme Court of Georgia. Instead, they were directly extradited to Moscow's Supreme Court — a break from usual Soviet legal procedures, but fitting for a case of such explosive political gravity. This was to be a judgment from the very heart of Soviet power, where justice, or at least its iron fist, would be firmly dealt.

Three years ago, Chanturia and Kostava had walked the courtroom as victorious villains, their heads held high with defiant pride. Now, shackled and broken, they stood as defeated prisoners—silent shadows of the men they once were, weighed down by chains and dread.

Outside the courthouse, a restless crowd gathered, watching, waiting. The recent media blitz by Putian had shattered any illusions: these men were no innocent patriots, but bloodied executioners of Soviet order. The air was thick with tension, the silence of expectancy heavy over the square.

Inside, the courtroom brimmed with gravity. Judges, jurors, and officials took their seats with solemn resolve. At the center stood Chernov, president of the Moscow Supreme Court, bearing the weight of the state's wrath. The old Russian proverb echoed unspoken: the judge's left hand wields the sword to cut crime down; the right hand holds the scales of justice.

And in the name of the Supreme Soviet, Chernov was ready to strike.

Alongside Chanturia and Kostava, captured rioters shuffled in—fear etched on every face. So frightened were they that before even the Ministry of the Interior could intervene, they spilled every detail, confessing and casting blame. Chanturia and Kostava were framed as the masterminds, the ultimate culprits.

When Chernov pronounced the death sentences for murder, treason, and secession, both men almost crumpled to the floor, their last strength ebbing away. Outraged "democratic" members erupted in protest, but the response was swift and merciless—police officers brandishing guns expelled them without mercy.

Kostava swallowed his pain, accepting full blame, but never dared reveal that Zviad was the true architect behind the chaos. He recalled too well the chilling words whispered under the dining table that fateful night:

"You can flee Georgia with the U.S. money and vanish into the West. Or you can betray me to the Soviets and claim I'm the mastermind. But even if you die on the gallows, your family—scattered abroad—will never escape the hunt. Your youngest son at Columbia University? They will come for him too."

Zviad's ruthless desire to monopolize Georgia's political future was clear: anyone who refused his terms faced a far worse fate than execution.

"I accept all charges and obey the court's decision," Chanturia's voice was deep, resigned—a man choosing to die alone, or be swallowed whole by the storm of politics. Kostava, once defiant, had now surrendered completely.

The so-called democratic prisoners, less stoic than the two leaders, broke down sobbing when the sentence was read. University students wept openly, remorseful for their role in the unrest, begging for clemency.

Chernov listened coldly, then solemnly unveiled photographs of the dead—innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. He fixed them with steely eyes:

"If I forgive you, how do we face the faces in these pictures? Did you consider their pain when you stirred this chaos? I doubt it. Forgiveness is for priests and gods. Our duty is justice. You will meet them soon."

The courtroom froze in horror. Chernov slammed shut the last door to hope.

"Punish them!"

"The Soviets will never let enemies go free!"

"You beasts, to hell with you!"

Outside, the crowd's fury boiled over. Without heavy police presence, those prisoners might have been torn apart by the mob. Soviet justice was absolute. No one challenged order without consequence.

January 7th, Russian Orthodox Christmas, fell on a day of bitter irony. Moscow shivered in sub-zero cold. Families gathered in warmth and faith, thanking Jehovah for peace and salvation. Elderly believers held crosses at their tables; a little girl, wrapped in white, watched snowflakes dance over the icy Volga.

Suddenly, military trucks thundered along the frozen dirt roads, carrying pale, lifeless figures. More trucks passed. The girl opened her mouth to ask, but the old woman swiftly covered her eyes, drew curtains, and led her back to prayer.

The old man whispered a final plea: "May God forgive their sins."

While families rejoiced, these condemned souls marched silently toward death. The wind bit at their faces, drying tears of regret. Their only companions on this last journey were sorrow, sobs, and crushing silence.

Chanturia's pale face turned skyward one last time. Forcing a faint smile, he whispered to Kostava:

"Don't be so sad. Aren't we the authors of our fate? Why follow others' failed coups? It's tragic to fall at the hands of our supposed allies."

The harsh click of a Kalashnikov bolt echoed like a death knell. Chanturia's eyes closed instinctively.

"Zviad, don't celebrate yet. We'll be waiting for you in hell."

Gunfire shattered the quiet over the Volga. Jackdaws scattered into the dark forest, their cries muffled.

The volley continued for fifteen grim minutes before silence reclaimed the frozen air.

After the bodies were confirmed lifeless, soldiers dragged them to a snowy graveyard, planting crosses in the frozen ground. Blood seeped slowly, painting the white ice a chilling crimson under the cold winter sun.

Thus, the Soviet Union ended the Georgian upheaval—with cold steel and colder bullets.