Guilty

The prosecution made its case. Experts and witnesses gave testimony. Mountains of irrefutable evidence were presented. None contradictory; none circumstantial.

The defense pleaded for mercy.

The jury deliberated.

Briefly.

It was an ironclad case.

There were tears in the judge’s eyes when he stretched out his arm and pointed his finger toward the door. His voice still held its customary authority. “Guilty.” But the strain of pain was unmistakable.

The guards escorted the accused from the courtroom.

And the boy murderer, the lavished upon son of the judge, turned and spit in his father’s face.

“I cannot change the law for you.

I cannot change the law for you, my son.

You did what was wrong, what is heinous.

And you knew.

You knew the law.

I know you knew the law because I taught it to you myself.

I taught it to you.

I gave you everything you needed to learn it well.

The best tutors and books.

Object lessons and study time.

And I tested you in it. And you knew it.

The law – it was what you breathed.

It was written on your heart.

Yet you broke it.

And I showed you mercy.

But you broke it again.

And I pleaded with you.

But you broke the law, my son.

And I can’t change it for you.

And this day there can be no mercy.

Because I love your brothers, too.

And I love your neighbors.

And I love you.

If only your murderous heart was instead loving.

My son, my son.

How I weep for you, my son.”