Human Rights Lawyer Robespierre
July 9, 1778, public trial ground near Versailles Palace, France.
I gazed down at the public trial ground from a villa nearby Versailles. The public trial ground was my invention. Maybe it was a quirk of the era, but until now, all trials had been held behind closed doors, leading to endless problems. So, naturally, there were all sorts of issues. The dramatic scenes from plays or films? They happened here too. Favoritism toward former officials wasn't a simple yes-or-no affair—it varied in degree. Acquittals were handed down for friends. No money, guilty as charged; rich, innocent. That phrase fit perfectly.
So I uprooted the whole rotten system. Closed-door trials the problem? Make them public, then.
—Today's trial will judge two former counts and three former barons. The charges are the same as yesterday: state subversion, hoarding, and exploitation of the populace.
The public trial ground was a true public trial ground. Not indoors, but right out in the street with chairs and a podium set up—a literal open-air court. There, a young judge whose face hadn't even a single wrinkle declared the session open. The law code lay open on his podium. What was there to say? France's noble judiciary had essentially been reset to zero. Judicial nobles? Prosecutors? None of that existed anymore. The locals might be different, but everyone near Paris had been rounded up. Most judicial nobles had been sinecures bought for corruption anyway.
There were a few legal scholars and commoner lawyers, but they were still green. So I allowed open-book trials. If you didn't know the law, just look it up. Judicial authority would take a hit, but purging came first. Even if the judiciary crumbled later and caused headaches, I had to eliminate the killable threats as fast as possible. Europe's monarchies were half-dead from the MEPO bills scam aftermath—now was the only window for a purge. Who'd sit idle while their kin faced the axe?
This glimpse made the 18th century feel like a gift.
"Your Majesty, the new diplomats propose drafting diplomatic documents using print."
"Permitted. Ah, but have them handwrite country and family names. Just in case?"
"Understood."
Macro responses might seem perfunctory, but they were convenient.
"Most diplomatic letters are about relatives' survival, aren't they?"
"Yes. 'Contact lost,' 'rumors abound'—they're roundabout ways of confirming life or death."
I'd expected as much. Post-martial law, diplomatic mail was much the same. Great turmoil in France. Seems like a popular uprising. Rumors everywhere... I'd nearly died from the worrywarts. Good thing the rookies handled it well.
"Nobles do love their hysterics."
It was just martial law, arrests of the elite, and predetermined executions. No cause for calling it a catastrophe. Popular revolution? Hardly. Still, the rumors were probably spot-on. What could be done? One certainty: France was getting healthier.
"Hold on—that prosecutor down there. Is that who I think it is?"
I spotted a man clearing his throat at the prosecutor's stand.
"Yes, that's Robespierre. Maximilien de Robespierre, the young man Your Majesty has taken special interest in."
"Why's he there? Isn't he just twenty?"
"Indeed. He graduated with a law degree this May. Your Majesty pushed for his early graduation. As a special management target, we plan to elevate him to the top judicial post within ten years."
Was that necessary? In original history, he'd orchestrated nearly half the Revolution's executions—a brilliant talent, but hard to trust fully. He was on my side, sure, but people were people...
*
Meanwhile, at the public trial ground.
"Your Honor! Stripping defense rights makes this an illegal trial! I beg you to reconsider!"
Robespierre was defending a noble whose execution was preordained.
"Isn't he the prosecutor?"
"Then who's prosecuting?"
The detainees under martial law were Louis XVI's handpicked "counter-revolutionaries." Naturally, these were show trials with death sentences locked in. A structure I'd meticulously designed for guaranteed executions. No defense rights, circumstantial evidence as binding as hard proof. If over half the jury approved, death overrode any verdict. And the jury? Handpicked by loyal bourgeois from the so-called Public Security Committee—actually National Intelligence Agency agents.
"Robespierre, you are the prosecutor. Your role is to accuse, not defend."
"Why hold a trial without a defense counsel?"
In the end, Robespierre's protest changed nothing. Even if he dropped charges, the jury would vote unanimously for death. But verdict was verdict, process was process. A clean trial-to-execution flow silenced critics. A no-charge verdict flipped by the jury? That bred backlash. Fine now, but future historians might decry persecution. And precedents could doom the judiciary in twenty or thirty years.
"Thus, I demand two things: give the defendants speaking rights and defense counsel. What is this farce? Muzzling the accused in a trial with no outcome but death? This isn't justice—it's slaughter."
Robespierre's words stabbed like a dagger into every heart in the courtroom.
"They may have subverted the state, embezzled funds, exploited the people, and plunged France into ruin with unauthorized guarantees. Even so, we must verify who, what, when, how, why they committed these crimes. Are they monsters deserving death, or pitiful souls swept up by circumstance? They are humans, Frenchmen, our neighbors! Humanity demands we uphold human dignity. Trials must assume we could stand in the accused's place. The goddess of law and justice blinds herself to rank, person, race, even species. She sees only crime and injustice!"
As Robespierre's eloquence peaked, the spectators murmured.
"Makes sense."
"Can't argue with that."
"First trial I've seen, but this ain't what I pictured."
The jury sent a servant to the Public Security Committee for instructions. The judge, clueless, flipped desperately through the law code.
"Of course, they're not innocent. Noble chain-guarantees dragged France's economy to auction blocks, lands and all. His Majesty's foresight saved most assets. But that's his merit, not theirs. Bluntly, had Britain not fought its colonies, Prussia no famine, Russia stability, Austria strength—France's wealth would've been sliced like cake."
Robespierre pressed the judge relentlessly.
"Even pompous nobles lack true divine mandate—that's His Majesty's alone."
"Clergy and bishops drowned in debt too."
The ball was now in the judge's court. Per my secret orders, he had to condemn the nobles. But with Robespierre standing firm and public sentiment swaying, execution couldn't proceed.
"The prosecutor's view has merit, but rules can't change on the spot. We'll review and implement tomorrow."
*
After court adjourned, a Public Security Committee chair—really an Intelligence agent—reported the trial in detail. I listened, not raging "Outrageous!"
Of course it had merit. What I was doing was judicial murder, plain and simple. Hard evidence covered only about ten nobles; from this week, most executions relied on suspicion. Speed demanded it, but Robespierre slamming the brakes? Historical inevitability? Nah, my imagination. If history forced anything, my popularity would've tanked already.
This debate revealed Robespierre's true nature.
"Robespierre. A rogue through and through."
"Shall we handle him?"
"No. Adopt his proposal—it's more rational."
I hated judicial murder too. Necessity forced my hand; I'd prefer peace. But the world wouldn't let me.
"If Robespierre insists, appoint him human rights counsel for the condemned. Let him defend Bastille nobles before the guillotine."
"Yes, sire."
But Robespierre wouldn't save them. Had France many conscientious nobles, revolution might've brewed. The good ones were already my loyalists. See the disloyal average for yourself. Idealism needed curbing once—to grasp half-baked revolution as true reform.