World: Want to Change Dollars?

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"Can you give me the right time?"

The question is well known to American tourists in every major Russian city. Usually accompanied by a furtive look, it is a standard opening gambit of a breed of young Soviet citizens that the Kremlin has long tried to stamp out: the black marketeers. They waste little time in getting to the point: "Want to change dollars? I can give you a good price."

The offer is tempting. Whereas the ruble is officially pegged at $1.11, the tourist can get it on the black market for anywhere from 25¢ to 66¢. But it is also dangerous, as two young American tourists discovered last week. Hauled before a Leningrad court were Buel Ray Wortham, 25, of North Little Rock, Ark., and Craddock M. Gilmour, 24, of Salt Lake City, who had made the mistake of talking about their black-market dealings in the presence of their Intourist guide. In addition, Wortham was accused of stealing a "national treasure" from his Leningrad hotel room — a 22-in. statue depicting a Russian bear that was shot by Czar Alexander II in 1865.

As a warning to black marketeers all over Russia, excerpts from the trial were broadcast over the state radio net work. Unlike the kangaroo courts of the Stalinist past, however, the proceedings seemed fair enough. State Prosecutor Aleksandr Borodankov went out of his way to point out that the U.S. and Russia had been allies during World War II. Whereas the maximum sentence for such black-market operations is eight years, Borodankov asked only for a five-year term for Wortham, who admitted to three separate transactions, and was willing to let Gilmour (one transaction, no bear) off with a 1,000-ruble fine.

Compromise Judgment. The prosecutor did not have everything his way. Both defendants were represented by Soviet attorneys, who seemed not at all embarrassed at having to defend Americans. Wortham's counsel produced character affidavits from everyone from the mayor of North Little Rock to Congressman Wilbur Mills, told the court that "Wortham is not a person of such social danger as the prosecutor represented," asked for a token sentence of three months.

Gilmour's attorney pulled out all the stops. Noting that the trial had been "followed with concern by a modest grey-haired man" — his client's father — Lawyer Semyon Khayfits cited Gilmour's "good reputation at the University of Utah." "In the faraway town of Salt Lake City," he intoned, "Craddock Gilmour's return is anxiously awaited by his mother."

The judgment, handed down by Chief Magistrate Nina I. Isakova, was a compromise. She agreed with the prosecution that Gilmour should pay 1,000 rubles for his freedom, sentenced Wortham to three years in a Soviet labor camp — with the probability of being released after 18 months of good behavior. In Moscow, the U.S. embassy called the sentence "harsh," as perhaps it was by American standards. For Russia, however, it seemed light indeed.

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