I'm not in favor of the death penalty. But I'm in favor of

“I’m not in favor of the death penalty. But I’m in favor of locking these people away in maximum security units where they can never get out. They can never escape. They can never be paroled. Lock the bad ones away. But you gotta rethink everybody else.” Thus spoke John Grisham, the writer and moral observer of the American soul, whose stories of justice and law reveal not only the flaws of courts and prisons, but also the complexities of human conscience. His words are not a cold decree of punishment—they are a meditation on justice, mercy, and the balance between protection and redemption. For he recognizes that the true measure of a society lies not in how it destroys its wrongdoers, but in how it distinguishes between the irredeemable few and the many who may yet be saved.

This saying, like much of Grisham’s work, springs from his deep engagement with the American justice system, both as a lawyer and as a storyteller. He has witnessed the cruelty of wrongful convictions, the suffering of the innocent imprisoned, and the failures of systems built on vengeance rather than wisdom. Yet he also acknowledges the existence of true evil—of those whose hearts are hardened beyond repentance, whose crimes tear at the very fabric of humanity. For such souls, he declares, there must be walls that no key can open. Still, even as he advocates for this unyielding security, his words turn toward compassion: “You gotta rethink everybody else.” In this, he separates justice from cruelty and punishment from indifference. He reminds us that while a society must protect itself, it must not lose its own humanity in doing so.

In this balance between mercy and justice, we hear echoes of the ancients. The philosopher Aristotle taught that justice is not blind vengeance, but the pursuit of harmony in the city and the soul. The prophet Micah urged mankind to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly.” Even the Romans, who knew the cruelty of empire, inscribed in their laws the principle that punishment must fit the crime, not exceed it. Grisham’s words belong to this same eternal lineage of wisdom: the belief that justice must protect, but never dehumanize; that punishment must restrain the wicked, yet still leave room for the light of truth to reach those wrongly condemned.

Consider the tale of Jean Valjean, immortalized by Victor Hugo in Les Misérables. Imprisoned for stealing bread to feed his sister’s starving child, Valjean spent nineteen years in a brutal prison, emerging hardened and despised. Yet one act of mercy—a bishop’s forgiveness—transformed his soul and gave rise to a life of redemption. Had society locked him away forever, the world would have lost not only a man, but the living proof that even the fallen can rise. This is what Grisham means when he says, “You gotta rethink everybody else.” The punishment must be severe enough to protect the innocent, but wise enough to allow transformation where transformation is possible. To condemn all is to forfeit hope itself.

And yet, Grisham’s refusal of the death penalty is not weakness—it is a moral stance born of reverence for life and humility before the fallibility of man. He has seen how easily justice errs, how quickly the innocent can be swept away by flawed evidence or prejudice. Death, once delivered, admits no correction. Thus, he calls for imprisonment without cruelty, for restraint without hatred—a justice that is firm but not savage. The maximum security unit, in his vision, becomes not an arena of vengeance, but a fortress against the chaos of evil—a necessary boundary between safety and destruction.

But for the vast majority—the “everybody else”—he calls for reflection and reform. He asks us to look beyond the bars and statistics, to see human beings caught in the machinery of poverty, addiction, and despair. His words cry out for a reawakening of compassion, for the courage to rebuild prisons into places of restoration rather than decay. “Rethink everybody else,” he says, and in those four words lies a command for the ages: to weigh punishment with understanding, to guard justice from cruelty, and to ensure that even in the pursuit of order, we do not lose sight of the divine spark within every soul.

Thus, the wisdom of John Grisham’s quote can be carried as a lantern through the corridors of power and conscience alike. Let us, then, learn from it: Condemn evil, but do not become it. Build prisons for the truly dangerous, but build pathways of hope for those who can be redeemed. Remember that the death penalty silences the guilty—but risks silencing the innocent. A great nation is not one that punishes most fiercely, but one that punishes most justly.

So, my friends, let this truth dwell in your hearts: Justice without mercy is cruelty, and mercy without justice is weakness. The wise seek the golden balance, as Grisham does—to guard against the darkness of wickedness without extinguishing the light of redemption. In your own lives, judge fairly, forgive when possible, and never let anger blind you to humanity. For in the end, the measure of a civilization lies not in how it treats its heroes, but in how it treats its prisoners—and in this measure, may we strive always to be both just and kind.