Silence in the hall. Everything went quiet. Breaths slowed down. The feet of the audience froze under the benches. Even the platform, where the stern man sat, fell silent—the wooden splinters beneath it stopped creaking.
Sneez! It broke the long, steady silence.
A woman, who had been standing the whole time with scarred, calloused hands, exhaled deeply and began to speak:
— "How long have you worked as a surgeon in this facility?"
After the question came a short, tense pause. Then, at last, a firm and certain answer spread through the hall:
— "Eight years."
— "Do unfortunate events often happen during surgeries, even when the doctor cannot prevent them?" came the next question.
— "Fairly often. It depends," the witness replied.
— "Clarify your answer, please," the judge ordered sternly.
— "The risk of a patient dying during surgery depends, among other things, on their overall health," he said calmly and paused briefly to swallow accumulated saliva.
"But not only that. Age, severity of the illness, type of surgery, immune system condition, and how the body reacts to a certain procedure all play a big role. In oncological, traumatological, or neurosurgical operations, cases of bleeding caused by vessel injury, heart rhythm disorders, unexpected reactions to anesthesia, or organ failure can occur—for example, during a transplant…"
The man suddenly paused, but after a short silence, he continued.
"Like it happened to me. But I'm not here to tell all of that. So yes — unfortunately, patient deaths are common, and many different factors are behind them."
After such a long monologue, in which he tried to convince people, he deeply exhaled. Immediately, he caught Lyle's gaze, in which he felt a quiet satisfaction.
Lyle glanced briefly at the presiding judge. When she noticed no disagreement, she continued calmly.
— "Next question," she said in a calm tone, as if to confirm the reliability of his answer. "Why did you decide to become a doctor?"
As soon as the question was asked, a loud voice came from the front rows:
— "Objection! It is irrelevant to the matter at hand."
Tension rolled across the room. The lawyer looked at the judge's reaction with concern.
— "Objection overruled. The defendant will answer," the judge decided, without raising an eyebrow.
Lyle then exhaled slowly, as discreetly as possible. Soon she straightened up, her posture appeared more confident.
— "You may answer the question," the judge repeated after a long silence coming from Andrew.
At that question man froze. For a long moment, he said nothing. He stood and thought. It was not a hard question, but for him it had no answer. His thoughts tangled, and the longer he stood there, the further the memories slipped away. The harder it became to recall anything.
He tried to catch at least some sign that might remind him of his decision back then, but in truth, there was nothing. Nothing that could truly explain why he chose this path.
— "Andrew?" His train of thought was cut off by a firm voice. "Please describe your day on March 9th," came the next question, after noticing his condemned expression.
— "Yes… yeah…" He was sure it was the simplest question — and yet he froze. "I…" but the words slid off his tongue, he had no idea how to start — he remembered nothing.
— "I… actually… don't remember at all," he said, lost, and looked at Lyle.
After his words, whispers spread quickly across the hall, followed by condemning stares.
Then Lyle, hearing no further answer, decided to end the awkward questioning:
— "That will be all from me, Your Honor."
Despite Andrew's struggle to recover, the prosecutor immediately began his speech, standing at once:
— "What is your relationship with your patients?"
— "Objection! It is irrelevant to the case at hand," Lyle shot out, flustered.
— "Objection overruled. The defendant will answer," the judge ruled in an unmoving voice.
Andrew stood before the entire hall full of eyes, where clear disgust was visible. Nothing was left in him but anger and sharp emotions he could no longer control. But exhaustion was stronger than his desire for justice.
— "Do you think I would be capable of killing someone I personally know? Someone I speak to after a hard day, relax with, forget the crushing weight of daily struggles with? Someone with whom maybe something more… even a love relationship… might arise?"
The hall filled with gasps. The eyes of those present scattered around the room in confusion. The prosecutor froze, staring in disbelief at the man standing in the front.
Lyle held her breath, afraid his impulsiveness could sway the entire hall.
— "No," he answered after a long, tense pause. "I never had a lover, nor a wife… if that's what you wanted to know," he said, filled with embarrassment, sadness, and despair.
— "Objection! He is not required to testify about that," Lyle interrupted nervously, with a trace of stress.
— "That's true, but he wasn't even asked to testify," the prosecutor replied quickly.
Everyone in the hall turned to the judge, waiting for his decision.
— "Yes, if it is a voluntary statement, he may continue," the judge ruled calmly.
The lawyer sat down, troubled, after hearing his approval.
After a moment of tension hanging in the air, Andrew — full of calm and confidence — went on, provoking everyone present.
— "No children either… though sometimes I dreamed of them," he faltered.
Distant, unclear memories flashed through his mind. In the dream, a boy smiled at him while running across a green field. He was indistinguishable, yet he stirred a strangely pleasant feeling in him.
They were foreign memories — and yet he could recognize the familiar scent of fresh grass, recall the ringing sound of children's laughter that suddenly echoed in his ears.
Through that laughter, a sharp, official voice suddenly broke:
— "Mr. Andrew, have you said everything?" The voice pulled him out of the vivid, colorful dream. "Sir, can we conclude? Sir! Do you hear me?!" The nagging shouts struck him.
— "Yes, yes… No, please, let me finish," he woke in confusion and looked around, surrounded by countless unknown faces. He scanned every head, fixing his gaze on the millions of dusty corners.
— "With the permission of everyone present, with a clear conscience and sincere words, I want to say," he paused with solemn weight, "that even with anger and dislike for my work, I could never commit an act against my own ethical and human values," he spoke smoothly, words flowing easily.
"And above all, I promise that I would never cross these moral lines for a job I would hate for the rest of my life," he finished with such certainty that, for a moment, even the unrest in the courtroom went quiet. His speech carried a loud grandeur.
In that moment, he saw only one face in the whole room. The only one he would know among millions. The only one who could bear his temper, his weakness, his anger. The one who had come closer to him than anyone else.
Lyle shone faintly, stretching a weak smile.
After the closing words, the judge ended the trial. When the solemnity and seriousness faded with the crowd leaving the hall, there was still a heavy silence between Andrew and Lyle, waiting, tense and endless. The silence finally broke with praise.
— "That was exciting… It was really impressive… I think even for the judge," Lyle said with relief.
But then the silence returned, uncomfortable.
— "Why did you decide to help me? Where do this wish and effort come from?" Andrew asked.
— "I'm a lawyer," she answered clearly and without doubt.
Andrew only looked at her with a sharp and curious gaze.
— "Yes, but you're not indifferent. I feel your compassion."
— "Because I know you're not a man who would commit a crime," her words carried honesty Andrew could feel. She looked straight into his eyes, and for a moment, they both stayed silent.
— "Anyway… I'm glad you didn't give up," she gave him one last look and left with a clear conscience.
He only watched the place where the figure of hope slowly disappeared, leaving the room empty and quiet. Andrew sat for a while longer, staring at a single point he didn't want to let go.
— "Thank you…" came from his mouth—dry and barely moving—releasing the burden he had carried for many years.
In that moment, which felt like the end of endless suffering, Andrew's eyelids suddenly opened. Blinding light streamed through the window, weakening his eyes, still covered by a blind curtain. Through those burning rays, something moved; the light faded, and slowly a figure appeared