Opponents of capital punishment argue that the state has no right

Host: The evening sky bled into a deep amber dusk over the courthouse steps. A cluster of reporters, cameras, and protesters lingered, their voices rising and fading like waves. Placards caught the dying light — “Justice, Not Revenge”, “Life is Sacred”, “No One Deserves to Die.”

Beyond the crowd, in the shadow of the old marble building, Jack leaned against the railing, his face hardened, a faint scar running across his cheek — the kind that time doesn’t erase, only dulls. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her coat wrapped tightly, her eyes tired but resolute, holding a file marked “Appeal.”

The day had been long — too long. The execution had gone through.

In the silence that followed the chaos, only one sentence hung between them, written on the courthouse bulletin board, underlined in black ink:

“Opponents of capital punishment argue that the state has no right to take a murderer’s life. Apparently, one fact that abolitionists forget or overlook is that the state is acting not only on behalf of society, but also on behalf of the murdered person and the murdered person’s family.” — Dennis Prager

Jeeny: “You really believe that?” she asked softly, turning toward him. “That the state kills for someone? That it speaks for the dead?”

Jack: “Someone has to,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “The law isn’t about mercy, Jeeny. It’s about balance. You take a life, you forfeit your own. That’s justice — not poetry.”

Host: A breeze swept through, stirring newspapers across the steps, rustling like restless spirits. The streetlamps flickered on, spilling pale gold light over faces drawn tight with unspoken grief.

Jeeny: “Justice isn’t balance, Jack. It’s humanity in practice. If the state kills to prove killing is wrong — how is that moral?”

Jack: “Because morality means consequences. The state doesn’t kill out of rage. It kills out of duty — on behalf of those who can’t speak anymore. For the murdered, for their families, for the promise that life still means something.”

Jeeny: “But whose life? The victim’s or the murderer’s? When the state takes a life, it becomes what it condemns. How can it claim higher ground from the same bloodstained soil?”

Jack: “Because intention matters,” he snapped. “The murderer kills for power. The state kills for order. There’s a difference.”

Host: The last streak of sunlight caught the edge of his face, revealing the tremor behind the conviction. It wasn’t arrogance that drove his words — it was pain, long buried and barely breathing.

Jeeny: “You talk about order as if it heals anything,” she said. “But I’ve seen families get the sentence they prayed for — and still feel nothing but emptiness afterward. Closure is a myth built by policy.”

Jack: “Closure isn’t the point. Dignity is. You think justice can exist without punishment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But punishment doesn’t have to mean death.”

Jack: “Tell that to someone who’s buried their child,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing, his hands clenching at his sides.

Jeeny: “I have, Jack. And you know what they told me? That no sentence — not even death — brings the person back. It just multiplies the tragedy.”

Host: The air between them pulsed, thick with memory and moral exhaustion. Jack’s jaw tightened, a small flicker of something breaking beneath the armor of righteousness.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that?” he said quietly. “You think I haven’t lived it?”

Jeeny: “Then why defend it?”

Jack: “Because justice isn’t therapy, Jeeny. It’s structure. Without it, grief becomes chaos.”

Jeeny: “But when structure demands blood, it becomes vengeance dressed in ceremony.”

Jack: “Maybe vengeance and justice aren’t as different as you want them to be.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem.”

Host: The wind howled through the empty plaza, whipping her hair across her face, his coat against his chest. For a moment, they stood as silhouettes — two ideals locked in quiet war.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me most?” she said, her voice trembling. “That we’ve learned to justify killing so elegantly — with documents, witnesses, injections, last meals — and we call it civilization.”

Jack: “And what do you call civilization without consequences?”

Jeeny: “Redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption doesn’t bring the dead back.”

Jeeny: “Neither does execution.”

Host: A car horn blared in the distance, breaking the silence. The city’s heartbeat returned, but their world stayed still — suspended in a moral freeze-frame.

Jack: “When my brother was murdered,” he said suddenly, his voice hoarse, “I wanted the man who did it dead. Every day. I pictured it — his face, his breath stopping. I thought it would free me. And when it finally happened, when they told me the sentence was carried out — you know what I felt?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Nothing. Just… quiet. A silence that didn’t heal. Just emptied everything.”

Jeeny: “Because punishment doesn’t restore. It only ends.”

Jack: “No,” he whispered. “It reminds.”

Host: The streetlight buzzed, its glow flickering over Jack’s trembling hands. Jeeny watched him, her eyes softening, the fight draining from her like warmth from cooling glass.

Jeeny: “Then maybe justice should remind us differently — not by mirroring violence, but by transcending it.”

Jack: “You think forgiveness is justice?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes mercy is the only thing that stops the cycle.”

Jack: “And sometimes mercy becomes an insult to the dead.”

Jeeny: “Or a lesson for the living.”

Host: The rain began, slow and steady — a baptism for the broken street. Drops fell on the marble steps, darkening them like tears on stone.

Jack: “You know, Prager said the state acts on behalf of the murdered person and their family. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not about morality at all. Maybe it’s about voice — about giving the dead the final word.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the dead never asked for blood. Only the living do.”

Jack: “Because the living are left behind, Jeeny. They have to build meaning from ruins. And sometimes meaning costs life.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ve built justice out of despair, not wisdom.”

Host: Her words cracked the air open, soft but devastating. The sound of rain intensified, echoing like applause and accusation all at once.

Jack: “So what’s your justice, then?” he asked quietly. “Let the killer live? Feed him, clothe him, let him grow old while families visit graves?”

Jeeny: “My justice is making sure no more killing happens — not even by the state. My justice teaches, not ends.”

Jack: “And what if teaching fails?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we didn’t lose our soul trying.”

Host: The rain softened, the protest signs wilted under the downpour, ink bleeding like truths dissolving in water. Jack looked at her, and for the first time, the certainty in his eyes fractured — revealing the man beneath the principle.

Jack: “You really think mercy can fix a world like this?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “But it can stop us from breaking it further.”

Host: He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the courthouse — its columns gleaming with rain, its doors sealed for the night, a monument to law, to pain, to all the things humans can’t agree upon but can’t stop pursuing.

Jeeny: “Justice isn’t about giving death meaning,” she said. “It’s about giving life back its value.”

Jack: “Maybe they’re the same thing,” he murmured.

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “They’re opposite reflections — one stares into darkness, the other into light.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered between them — a thin, trembling line dividing conviction from compassion.

Then, slowly, Jack extended his hand, and Jeeny took it, not as agreement, but as acknowledgment — that both truths carried weight.

The camera would pull back, rising above the courthouse steps, over the city soaked in rain, over a world that never stopped debating what justice meant.

And somewhere, in that fragile human silence, the eternal question remained —
whether justice is meant to balance life, or to honor it.