When we imagine justice, often pictured is the iconic figure of Lady Justice. From ancient Greece to the U.S. Supreme Court, there she is—blindfolded, holding a scale in one hand and a sword in the other. Ever wondered what those symbols mean? Or what they are intended to instill, even as the fate of cases are decided today, at this very moment?
Lady Justice is not some relic of ancient mythology; she embodies what we hold sacred in a courtroom. That blindfold? It is not an indifference to truth but a pledge that justice will not be swayed by wealth, power, or privilege. The scales? They measure not just the evidence, but the weight of what is right and what is wrong. And that sword? It is the instrument of justice, ready to strike down deception, inequality, and abuse of power.
But here is the question you must answer: Will Lady Justice remain blind, or will she be forced to peek beneath her blindfold to make an exception? Will the scales tip under the weight of injustice, or will they remain balanced by the principles of fairness?
The answer lies with you. Because when you become a juror, at that moment, Lady Justice is no longer a distant set of ideals. She is you. Her blindfold is your impartiality. Her scales are your reason. Her sword is your verdict.
Somewhere, long before the trial began, justice was abandoned. A wrong was committed. The powerful, the negligent, the reckless—they counted on this moment never arriving. They counted on you never having the power you have right now.
But here you are. And here Lady Justice stands—waiting.
The weight of a case is not measured in legal citations or technical arguments. It is measured in lives. In the pain of those who have suffered. In the arrogance of those who have ignored their responsibilities.
And what is the defense asking you to do? To take Lady Justice’s scales and tip them in favor of the powerful? To let injustice stand because it is inconvenient to confront it? To pretend that truth is malleable? Or that accountability is optional?
You know better. Justice is not a favor to be granted; it is a right that must be enforced. If Lady Justice could speak, she would tell us that a trial is not about loopholes or excuses. It is about accountability. It is about justice. And justice—real justice—demands we speak the truth.
Some of you may have thought, at the beginning of trial, that justice was someone else’s burden. The judge’s burden. The lawyers’ burden. But now you know the truth: it is yours. Justice is not declared from the bench—it is delivered from the jury box.
The sword of Lady Justice is in your hands now. But a sword is only as strong as the one who wields it. And if it is left unused, if it is dulled by inaction or fear, then it is no longer justice at all—it is surrender.
You were not chosen at random. You were called. Each of you. Because the system believes in you. Because this case—this moment—demands men and women who will not look away. Who will not let injustice go unanswered.
Your verdict is more than a decision. It is a public order. It says to those who think they are above the law: You are not. It says to those who think they can shift their way out of accountability: You cannot. It says to the victims who have waited, who have hoped, who have prayed for justice: Your suffering was not ignored. Your pain was not dismissed. That justice has arrived.
And when that verdict is read, when Lady Justice stands vindicated because of you, the world outside this courtroom will know that in this place, in this moment, truth mattered.
That justice was not an empty word, but a living promise.
That when faced with the choice between comfort and courage, this jury—you—chose justice.
