‘Milord,’ he says (and he means you), ‘the court has before it today a case no less clear
than the task of the executioner. The accused has stretched out his neck beneath the heavy
blade of justice, and there is no question but that this blade must fall. For he has blood on
his hands, Milord. Young blood. The blood of a child. He killed not out of anger, not out of
scheme or plan or design. He killed as a serpent kills that which it does not intend to eat:
he killed out of indifference. He killed because his nature is to kill, because the death of a
child has no meaning for him.
‘There can be no doubt here, Milord; no more facts exist to be found. The balancing of
scales awaits, Milord; redress for wrong is come. Tender humanity screams in fear,
confronted by such a monster, and conscience weeps with rage. The law licks its lips at the
prospect of punishing such a one, and justice can shut its eyes today, so easy is its task.’
The prosecutor pauses, his words leaping about the courtroom like shadows cast by
unsheathed knives in the flickering light of some dying candle.
‘For this, Milord, is his crime …’
Excerpt From Moth Smoke