The courthouse smelled of dust and ink. Its marble floors gleamed, but the air was heavy with something rotten. I walked those halls daily, my robes brushing against the polished stone, my heart weighed down with defeat after defeat.
One morning, I was assigned to defend a young boy accused of stabbing a merchant. He was no older than fifteen, thin as a reed, his wrists like sticks inside the iron cuffs. His eyes darted, frightened, as if he still couldn't understand how he had been dragged into this place.
The merchant's lawyer arrived in silk, a chain of gold heavy around his neck. He spoke with confidence, pointing at the boy as though he were an insect. His words dripped with disdain.
I fought back. I argued that the knife had no prints, that no witness saw the boy strike, that the merchant had enemies among his rivals. I shouted until my throat cracked.
The judge listened with one ear. Then the merchant's lawyer stood, cleared his throat, and spoke for less than a minute. He ended with a smile and a glance toward the bench. The judge nodded.
"Guilty," he said.
The gavel fell like a hammer on bone. The boy collapsed, sobbing. His mother screamed in the gallery until guards dragged her out. I stood there frozen, my hands trembling, my body hollow.
Later that day, I walked past the judge's chambers. The door was open. Inside, the merchant poured him wine, laughing. Their glasses clinked. The judge's hand rested on the merchant's shoulder like an old friend.
I turned away before they saw me, bile rising in my throat.
That night, I sat in my office, staring at my notes, at the books I had once worshipped. The words "justice for all" blurred before my eyes. I thought of the boy, his wrists bound, his face pale with terror. I thought of my father, buried in common ground, his cough silenced forever.
My faith cracked. But still, I told myself: one honest case. There must be one.
I clung to that thought like a drowning man to driftwood.
Yet in the courthouse halls, the judges smiled, the lawyers laughed, and the powerful walked free with their pockets full. Their faces were masks, polished and false. And I began to wonder if justice itself was nothing but a mask as well.