Our Modern Trial

The blast of the horns from the motorway echoed through the air, each spurning the thought as to why I still walk these city streets. After today's trial, here I was out in the open streets of this cold Washington night, thinking of him. That man, my grandfather, though just a humble prosecutor, considered himself to be the greatest veteran of all. One of his cases always resurfaces in my mind on nights of long work like these, the one where he claimed a part in concluding one of humanity's darkest moments…

In that room, line after line of people waited, wishing to contribute to the case. He told me of how the wood smelt rather homely despite the ash and soot which clogged the lungs of its citizens. How the room had been entirely unparched by the forces which had caused the ultimate destruction of the city - separate and untouched. He made known the importance of the hard work that had taken place in that room, even in the penumbra of war. I recall my grandfather's speech, "that together, the American people will always come out on top, that it was in our blood. As a people we had it in us to be something greater than all else, a culture built upon the foundations of triumph and freedom, against the British, the Germans twice and the Koreans." He really believed that beneath all the rubble that could fall on us, we would rise up and do good and bring peace back to the fretters waiting in the American streets.

Now, on these same streets, amidst the horn blasts and the tapping shoes, you hear of the struggles and the conflicts of standard life. I listen to every sound provided by the street in desperation to find something to cling to, I hear it all! Not about murderers, robbers, philanderers, tax evaders, scammers - these days people do not want to hear or tell stories which cause them grief. Instead, I have tuned myself to the noise outlets which blow baseless beliefs into one ear, shimmering and slipping until they ooze out the other. People glare, but with apathetic eyes; the suits gargle cacophonous jargon into their cells and cars continue to pass slowly, each honking their horn as much as possible, perhaps just to let you know they're there. I comb these streets in search of a truth, but no matter which path I walk down I can never reach it.

I think I deserve a breather.

Eventually Dad took over as the storyteller after grandfather's passing. Like his father, he found that one particular story which typified his career. This case was apparently unlike all others…

It had been justice for the people and the destruction of corruption! He had taken down the most influential man in the nation at the time. Surrounded by the tall, typical, wooden stands of the court that echoed assertive voices of the law, he had struck down the threat. Like father like son, his work had become a parable. He said, "No matter how powerful or influential someone thinks they are, even if they are your leader, they will never interfere with the American people doing what needs to be done."

But now, I can't find my story, one which can compete and surpass the rest. The present is filled with a tranquil turbulence, a harmonious discord, an elusiveness that mars truth. All around us, heinous events occur, televised and visualised and digitalised for all to see! I am never at rest with my justice. Yet the world, as it is said to be, is one with crime at an all time low, why is it that I sit waiting for something to pass my judgement on?

I glare into the vacuous night, where there is no man or machine to be observed, analysed, critiqued or chastised. The street is now resting and here I am, wondering how it became this way. I know that there are monstrous wrongs going on, yet I cannot see them. I am powerless to the night which turns its back to the evils of the world. The generations before us have said that it was in our hands to breathe right into our world. Unlike the enemies that had been fought by our ancestors, immorality seems to have become the giving hand, the provider, the scaffold of our world.

There is no longer a clear division between what is good and what is evil.

Justice has been placed on the receiving end of the thrashings from the cat o' nine tails. It lives in the shadow of its former self, and In its debility, how is it possible to fight alongside and against the virtuous corruption of society? All I can do is pace the city street basking in the night as I continue my search.

Is this my trial, the modern trial?