We were called not to battle, but to judgment. A strange arena, where words are sharpened and truth is weighed as though it were coin. Tassi stood accused for her voice, for turning lived events into song, and for placing power beneath scrutiny. We spoke where we could, offering structure to her defense, though it became clear that such proceedings are less about truth and more about who may endure long enough to claim it. Even so, the rhythm held. Questions were asked. Doubt was sown. The wheel turned slowly, but it turned.

It was not the court that ended the matter, but the man who sought to control it. Randy Walters abandoned the illusion of order and chose violence, and in doing so revealed the truth beneath the proceedings. What began as accusation ended as conflict, and conflict resolved itself in the only language it truly understands. The officers fell. Tassi was declared innocent. The room returned to stillness, though it was not the same stillness as before. There is a pattern in this: those who grasp too tightly at authority often hasten their own end. I do not celebrate this. I simply observe it. The song she wrote will outlast them. That, perhaps, is its own form of judgment.

I will note, for the sake of completeness, that in his final moments, Randy Walters proved himself… remarkably consistent in character. There are many names one might give such a man. I find myself settling, with uncharacteristic certainty, on one that requires little philosophy to understand:

“A son of a bitch.”