There are moments in a judge’s life when the courtroom, with all its rituals and rules, falls utterly silent. The advocates’ voices fade, the rustle of papers ceases, and even the ticking of the clock seems to pause. In that stillness, I am left alone with the law, the facts-and the quiet, persistent whisper of my conscience.
As a judge in the Indian judicial system, I am entrusted with a profound responsibility: to uphold the law, ensure justice, and safeguard the rights of all who come before me. The courtroom is my domain, a place where evidence is weighed, arguments are heard, and verdicts are rendered. Yet, beneath the solemnity of the black robe and the authority of the bench, I am, above all, human-subject to the same inner conflicts and moral quandaries that define the human experience.
Recently, I found myself reflecting deeply after watching the film Juror #2, a gripping story where a juror realizes he may be the true perpetrator in the very case he is helping to decide. The film’s central question-what happens when the person charged with delivering justice carries a secret that could upend the entire trial-struck a chord with me. While India has long since moved away from the jury system, preferring the trained judicial mind over a panel of laypersons, the core dilemma remains: what is a judge to do when personal conscience and the strictures of law collide?
In India, the move away from jury trials was rooted in the recognition that public sentiment, bias, and emotion could too easily sway the course of justice. As a judge, I am expected to rise above such influences, to interpret and apply the law impartially. Yet, there are moments when the facts of a case, the stories of the people before me, and the broader social context weigh heavily on my mind. The law may be clear, but justice is rarely so simple.
Suppose, hypothetically, I were to find myself in a situation similar to that depicted in Juror #2: what if, through some twist of fate, I realized that I possessed crucial knowledge about a case-knowledge that could exonerate the accused or reveal the true perpetrator? The law requires me to remain impartial, to judge only on the evidence presented in court. But my conscience might urge me to act, to speak up, to prevent a miscarriage of justice. In such a scenario, the very qualities that make me a good judge-empathy, integrity, and a sense of duty-could become the source of my greatest inner conflict.
The Indian judicial system is designed to minimize such dilemmas. Judges are bound by codes of conduct, and any conflict of interest must be disclosed. If I were personally involved, recusal would be mandatory. Yet, the boundaries are not always so clear. Sometimes, the conflict is not about personal involvement, but about the tension between what the law demands and what my conscience tells me is right. There are cases where the strict application of the law feels at odds with the demands of justice or compassion. In those moments, I must ask myself: Should I follow the letter of the law, or should I allow my sense of right and wrong to guide my decision?
This is the enduring paradox of judging in India: replacing the jury with a judge-centric system was meant to insulate justice from public prejudice, but it cannot eliminate the moral dilemmas at the heart of every case. As a judge, I am called upon to balance the demands of the law with the expectations of society, the needs of the individual with the interests of the state, and the dictates of my conscience with the precedents of the court.
The film Juror #2 may be set in a different legal system, but its core question resonates deeply with me: If I held the truth that could save an innocent person but destroy my own standing, what would I do? Would I risk everything for the sake of justice, or would I trust the system to deliver the right outcome without my intervention? As a judge in India, where the law and morality so often intersect, this is not just a theoretical question-it is a daily reality.
So I leave you with this: In a world where the law is not always synonymous with justice, and where judges are as human as those they judge, how far should a judge’s conscience go in shaping the course of justice? If you were to sit on this bench, with the law on one side and your conscience on the other, where would you let justice pause? Would you trust the certainty of rules, or the quiet guidance of your soul? And when the courtroom falls silent, whose voice would you hear most clearly- the law’s, or your own?
Justice N.Anand Venkatesh Judge High court Madras
