Coming Home

by Brittney Griner

Only 4 percent of U.S. sports coverage is devoted to women’s sports. Black female athletes get even less airtime.

When most folks look at me, they don’t think vulnerable. When you’re six nine and covered in tats, you’re seen as menacing, not in need of protection. That’s true of Black people in general. We’re viewed as thick-skinned, immune to the aches others feel.

So my campaign slogan had a couple of big jobs. First, it had to make me visible in a world where Black women are often ignored or demeaned. Second, it had to make me relatable. Yes, I’m Black, gay, a female baller. But when people saw my face and heard my story, we needed them to say, “Hey, she’s me”—American first and foremost, and someone with feelings.

In the view of Americans, not all hostages are created equal. Some easily earn public sympathy, while others are scorned. Dr. Gilbert’s research has shown one reason why: When deciding whether a hostage deserves our compassion, we consider that person’s characteristics and whether he or she seems to blame for being captured.

Phoenix Mercury teammates wore the pins while taking part in the Heart and Sole Shoe Drive—an initiative I launched in 2015. When driving home from practice, I’d pass homeless people without shoes. It broke my heart. In my trunk, I began collecting sneakers I could hand out. That effort grew into distributing collection bins at retailers all over Phoenix.

With hostage bargaining there are no guarantees, just lumps in the throat and tears. While I sat in prison that spring, so did dozens of U.S. hostages all over the world, from China, Cuba, and Cambodia to Iran, Afghanistan, and Mozambique.

When you’ve got nothing but time, you talk. And when you talk in prison, you hear frightening stories.

Even before my detainment, I’d heard about the penal colonies. They’re basically leftover gulags, the vast, brutal system of Soviet labor camps started in 1919 that peaked under Joseph Stalin’s dictatorship. The conditions were so grueling that more than a million inmates died. Some literally starved to death as they slaved in mines and built railroads in the bitter cold. Others were executed.

After Stalin’s death in 1953, the gulags were disbanded but lived on by another name: the penal colonies. Trevor served his time in one of the more than eight hundred camps scattered across Russia.

I had no say in a country where Putin controlled everything.

The main guard would give one set of directions. A lower guard would contradict her.

Like Putin’s courts, his prisons are chaotic.

How do you prepare for the most terrifying turning point of your life?

By pleading guilty, I’d be saying, “You’re right, Putin—I did it. I didn’t intend to break the law, but I did.” Putin would then appear to be the strongman, the almighty savior.

A not-guilty plea would make officials’ jobs easier. From their perspective, it’d be simpler to explain why they’d designated me wrongfully detained, because wrongfully detained and not guilty seem to go hand in hand.

SPEHA concluded that Russia purposely used my arrest and severe treatment as a bargaining chip, a way to score political points.

seven days of testimony, through July and into August. The proceedings took place at the Khimki courthouse near county.

We were this close to maybe having a trade on the chessboard. Why give the Russians a stupid reason to prolong the process? Strategically, shutting up was smart. Emotionally, it was tough.

During a quick court appearance, my charges were read and I was booked for July 1—day 135 of my wrongful detention.

July is Moscow’s hottest month, plus it rains a lot. Temps in the eighties don’t sound too bad, until you factor in the average humidity—around 75 percent.

No A/C in Russia’s prisons. None in its courthouses either.

I felt doomed in Putin’s courts, but I still hoped I’d get off.

According to the Russian Constitution, defendants were innocent until proven guilty.

When I rose, my dreads nearly grazed the cage ceiling. I had to hunch and drop my head just to see the judge.

The prosecutor read off my charges: smuggling in two cartridges containing cannabis oil, with a total of 0.7 grams—considered a “significant amount” in Russian law.

Under Russian law, I should have been told what I was suspected of, informed of my rights, and given access to an attorney within three hours of arrest.

In Russia, defendants are given the right to interview their accusers,

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “We’re attempting to negotiate with the Russians, but they’re not responding.”

I’m never going to tell you not to make noise for your person.

Pressuring President Biden in public would play into Russia’s hands, he explained. Putin, who thrived on conflict, could then use anti-Biden rhetoric to his advantage. Understood.

Near the close of the session I stood and gripped the cage bars. Several people craned their necks to stare back at me. “I would like to plead guilty on the charges against me, Your Honor,” I said. The judge raised her eyebrows slightly.

Afterward, my attorneys spoke to the press about my choice to plead guilty. Maria said she hoped the judge would consider the nature of the case, “the insignificant amount of the substance,” and my “personality and history of positive contributions to global and Russian sport.”

crack. He suggested the Russians might be willing to talk after a verdict, since “we have a long-established form for discussing these matters.” The longer this trial dragged on, the greater the delay in bargaining.

We are getting a lot of back-channel information from inside the White House that the pressure is working.” My team decided early we’d accept all help, however it came. From the White House. From Bill Richardson. From heaven. “I’ll say this because you know I can’t say more: There is progress,” Lindz reassured me. “We are getting closer.

The crammed courtroom was so sweltering on July 26 that everyone seemed uncomfortable. The humidity was a steamy 93 percent. Alex wiped sweat from his face with his handkerchief. Maria’s blouse was stuck to her back. Several minutes into the proceedings I heard a thud. A U.S. Embassy official had collapsed a few feet from my cage.

“As [the cartridges] ended up in my bags by accident,” I said, “I take responsibility. But I did not intend to smuggle or plan to smuggle cannabis to Russia.”

No need to badger the witness, Alex argued. I’d made my point clearly: I had no intent to break the law. Intent. So much of my case came down to that word, six little letters, plain but powerful—but almost impossible to prove.

Closing arguments and sentencing were set for August 4.

I understand the charges that are against me…but I had no intent to break any Russian law. I want the court to understand that it was an honest mistake that I made while rushing and in stress, trying to recover from post-Covid and just trying to get back to my team.”

We’d passed through the press lobby and started down the stairs when the prosecutor came running up and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see him waving his phone. “Picture?” he said, grinning.

“In accordance with Articles 69.3 and 69.4 of the Russian Criminal Code,” she concluded, “Brittney Griner’s final sentence is nine years’ imprisonment, including a fine of one million rubles, to be served in a penal colony.” One of the guards gasped.

“Do you understand the verdict?” the judge asked. Every camera in that room was literally in my face, waiting for me to break down. I refused to give the Russian government the satisfaction.

I thought I’d prepared for the worst. But nothing can prepare you for your world imploding.

The fate of my next decade was delivered in fifty-two seconds. I don’t recall much after the judge’s final gavel.

President Biden also condemned the verdict, calling on Russia to release me “immediately.” He said, “My administration will continue to work tirelessly and pursue every possible avenue to bring Brittney and Paul Whelan home safely as soon as possible.”

Letting go of hope is sometimes the most optimistic thing you can do.

Some inmates could pay their way out of prison early. The farther outside of Moscow your facility, the easier it was to bribe the authorities.

Russia relied on female prisoners to sew all its military uniforms and keep the facilities running.

On Russia’s, various names popped up, and especially one in particular: Viktor Bout, a notorious arms trafficker known as the Merchant of Death. He was serving twenty-five years in a U.S. prison.

Paul Whelan. Though his name was part of these talks, the U.S. government and Governor Richardson had been trying to bring him home for more than three years. Same with many of the sixty-plus American hostages around the world. At various points the administration believed it was close to securing Paul’s freedom.