Not once, in the whole proceeding, did he find the courage to turn around and look at me.

“All rise,” the bailiff called.

Judge Katherine Dorsey took the bench, settled her glasses, and looked down at the thick binder of evidence in front of her with an expression like weather about to break.

“Before I pass sentence,” she said, and her voice went out flat and carrying to every corner of that wood-paneled room, “I want the record to reflect exactly what these defendants did.

They did not commit a crime of passion or a moment’s terrible weakness.