It would have been easier if everyone involved were entirely monstrous, if every kind memory of them were false, if the case could be settled by choosing heroes and villains.

Real people were less convenient.

Dennis had a sister who loved him.

He also had employees whose livelihoods he had treated as disposable.

Both facts could exist.

That night I found an old photograph of my mother beside me in a grocery-store parking lot.

We were holding up a cake with lopsided frosting, laughing because the candles had melted in the car.

I remembered her telling me that accountability wasn’t a punishment for being human.