The judge’s seat was atop the pillar, which curved like an elephant’s tusk. The lawyers and the accused were on a crude, wooden platform. The teeming, filthy masses undulated below in silence.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor began. “We are here to discuss not the guilt of the accused, but his fate.” As he spoke, his face contorted with rage. He looked at the white-clad man, who stood silently.
“This man,” he exclaimed, pointing with trembling finger. “He is the worst kind of criminal, a heretic, and a terrorist. He is,” the prosecutor paused, choking on his rage, “a free thinker.”