The halls of the Kurgan City Court were thick with tension and the stale scent of old parchment as the proceedings against the former agents of the Economic Crimes Unit continued. Two men, Constantine Burdachev and Mikhail Kuzmenko, stand accused of the foulest of betrayals—selling the Queen's peace for silver. I sat amidst the crowd, observing the drama unfold as the witnesses were summoned to the stand.

First to enter the fray was Colonel Andrei Barinov, the chief of the anti-corruption department. He stepped into the room clad in a sharp suit and tie, looking every bit the dignified official.

Under the stern gaze of the prosecutor, Mr. Karetsky, the Colonel admitted he knew the accused by work, though they were not his direct subordinates. He spoke of the 'shadowy' operations regarding the Weysally merchants at the market—men whispered to be under the 'protection' of the defendants.

When pressed by the prosecutor, Barinov recalled a moment of dark suspicion. He testified that a certain superior had once murmured that Detective Kuzmenko was 'not clean of hand'—a phrase that in the parlance of the street means a man is prone to pocketing coins that do not belong to him. Yet, the Colonel admitted no hard evidence was presented at the time. He had simply suggested they revisit the matter when a 'subject for conversation' appeared. He vaguely recalled this happening in the summer of 2024, noting that Kuzmenko was nearly shuffled off to another department to avoid a criminal scandal.

Mr. Parygin, the solicitor for the defense, attempted to poke holes in the story, asking if any formal complaints had ever reached the Colonel’s desk. 'None,' came the reply. Barinov confessed that he had drifted off into a holiday leave shortly after the suspicions were raised, and the matter had vanished like fog in the morning sun.

Burdachev, the prisoner himself, rose to question the Colonel on the mechanics of the law—asking about 'sting operations' for illegal tobacco and the secrecy of the carriages used in raids. The Colonel confirmed that such traps were set, though he remained coy about whether the agents knew the numbers of the vehicles deployed.

Then came Alexei Kokorin, a former deputy who had departed the force in April 2025. He was a man who had walked the same beats as the accused. He confirmed the whispers about Kuzmenko’s 'unclean hands' but could recall no specific crime. The prosecutor then read from the records: it was alleged that Kuzmenko had been playing a double game, leaking secrets about tobacco raids to the very rogues the police were meant to arrest.

Burdachev attempted to challenge Kokorin's memory, questioning the legitimacy of the raids and the use of false carriage plates to deceive the public. Kokorin stood his ground, claiming that such deception was common practice to keep the criminals guessing.

Finally, a third witness, a former comrade and friend of Burdachev, took the stand. He spoke of the raids on the Weysally merchants and a peculiar correspondence. It seemed Burdachev had once written to him about a motor-car that Kuzmenko had allegedly 'borrowed' from a businessman for a trip to Tyumen. The witness claimed it was a mere jest—a bit of banter between friends—and expressed bewilderment as to why the investigators had omitted this 'joke' from the official record.

The judge, Mr. Schneider, frowned upon this discrepancy, but the witness could offer no explanation. The court was adjourned to summon more souls to testify.

These former servants of the law now languish in the dungeons of the remand prison, accused of taking bribes to shield the illegal tobacco trade. They maintain their innocence, while the city waits to see if the gavel will fall heavily upon them.