The Accused in This Republic
The killing of Charlie Kirk has brought about many things. His widow, Erika Kirk, showed the country and the world extraordinary grace in forgiving his killer. Forgiveness is a gift. The nature of grace is a many-splendored thing. One such splendor is that grace, precisely because it is unmerited, is often unexpected, surprising: wonderful.
Another thing that in history would have been unexpected and surprising, though not to the degree of grace, is our legal system on grand display. Consider what has transpired in the two court hearings in the criminal case for the death of Charlie Kirk.
Tyler Robinson is the alleged murderer. It is a highly charged case, not least because of the very public and gruesome nature of the death, and because Charlie Kirk was admired and fêted by many. Mr. Robinson is charged with having cut short Charlie Kirk’s good life unjustly, right in the middle of a good exercise of Mr. Kirk’s right of free speech. The chaotic scene that unfolded after the shooting at Utah Valley University was followed by waves of legitimate public grief and anger. Add to the mix a potent dose of the rot of digital technology, and we have found ourselves in a crazed and frenzied state.
So when a calm voice rang out in public, one that was measured, unhurried, normal—even with a note of patience and kindness—it was arresting, astonishing: a balm. It was the voice of Judge Tony F. Graf, Jr., the judge assigned to the case against Tyler Robinson. He started the hearing and stated what it was about: “State of Utah v. Tyler James Robinson.” Then, turning to look at the accused, appearing on a live video feed, he said, “Could you state your name?” To which the reply came, “Tyler James Robinson.” The judge then said, “Thank you for being here, Mr. Robinson. I’m Judge Graf.” And also, “You have the right to have the charges read that you stand charged of,” before taking the time to read him the charges.
What this proceeding was about; the name of the case. To the defendant: Thank you for being here. Introducing himself. Making sure the accused knew the charges against him. There is procedure being followed here, and a civility, decency—dignity—even when emotions run very high. We’re not jettisoning these things because this is an awfully important case—or perhaps, precisely because this is an awfully important case.
“Mr. Robinson,” the judge spoke to him, “You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the court can appoint an attorney to represent you.” Having reviewed Mr. Robinson’s declaration of financial status and finding him to be indigent, the judge said the court would provisionally appoint an attorney for him. More: “Mr. Robinson, I also wish to inform you of your rights against self-incrimination. Anything that you say in court today could be used against you, and we want to protect your constitutional rights.”
Americans are familiar with many of these rights from popular law-and-order movies and shows. But lest we take them for granted, we ought to pause and ponder. Not too many governments in the history of mankind would have charged an accused and insist on his having his own lawyer to defend him, then proceed to pay for that lawyer out of the people’s coffers, if need be. Not too many would have cared for, let alone so guarded, an accused’s right not to incriminate himself. If the impulse behind the vile killing of Charlie Kirk was, “I hate you. I’m going to kill you now to get rid of you. To hell with your rights—to hell with free speech and life,” it is a mark of a great people not to say right back, “We think you did this, and that makes you a bad guy. Off with your head, and fast. To hell with your rights. What rights?”
In the second hearing, the judge said affirmatively, “Mr. Robinson’s constitutional rights will be protected at every stage. He sits before this court presumed innocent, and that presumption remains unless and until each element of every offense charged against him is proved beyond a reasonable doubt.” That burden of proof is a very high one to meet. Why do this? Why not set the bar lower? With that kind of standard, wouldn’t some guilty people be able to walk away?
Well, yes. William Blackstone comments that it is “better that ten guilty persons escape, than that one innocent suffer.” Perhaps this sounds like a bad idea if we habitually think of defendants as “those bad people over there.” But as Professor James J. Duane, a terrific law professor of mine, likes to say, we are, each of us, potential defendants.
Judge Graf said that he took the oath to support and defend the constitutions of the United States and of Utah fifty-six days before that hearing, and that he had every intention to be faithful to that oath. He said that he wanted to treat everyone who appeared before him “with the dignity and respect they are inherently due because they are human beings.” To that end, he said, “I will not put my finger on the scale of justice.”
Justice, St. Thomas Aquinas says, is “a habit whereby a man renders to each one his due by a constant and perpetual will.” Our justice system puts into place certain rules and procedures that we may render to each man what is due to him, a free and rational being, one who bears the likeness and image of God himself, and thus one with great inherent dignity and worth—even when he may have committed terrible evil. It is a system designed, if we let it, to help form our habits as a people toward that constant and perpetual will, fit for the great virtue of justice.
These rights that the judge takes care to hold sacred are out of the Bill of Rights and the Constitution, rights that are of the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God. The Constitution, we might say, is a symbol of our republic. The word “symbol,” Greek in origin, comes from the word symballein, which means “to join or unite,” “to collect,” “to come together,” or “to throw together.” Contrast that with its opposite, diaballein, “to throw over or across,” “to set at variance,” related to “asunder.” Diaballein is in fact the root of the word “diabolical,” the sinister work of the Accuser, who kills, steals, and destroys: tearing apart, sowing discord or disharmony.
“A republic, madam—if you can keep it,” quipped Ben Franklin upon leaving the Constitutional Convention, when asked what kind of government the Founding Fathers had formed. The Constitution of the United States of America joins and unites us so that we might come together, keeping us in harmony, bringing us “e pluribus” into “unum.” It is good for us to care ardently how best to read the Constitution and to be faithful to it. It not only marks us to keep and to hand down a civilization worthy of its name, but it also keeps us, this republic, together. It is not a perfect republic, but its ideals are noble and worthy. The opposite, if we don’t keep it, is the diabolical option: this republic fractured and thrown over, torn asunder. It is the mark of a great republic, not a small-souled one, that we treat those we suspect of having committed even vile acts as we do because of the Constitution. If evil deeds tend to tear us apart, our fidelity to the Constitution helps us to stand united.
Any decency and respect we show to the accused is not a grace, because, as Judge Graf said, these are due to every human being. But it is a grace, a gift and a treasure, that we get to call ours such a republic as this—and that close to 250 years on, we see these principles and laws at work still.