text: "It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat." Head Judge Foley spoke the words as Inmate A sat on the stool with his guitar, hopeless. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact like a young Perseus afraid of facing Medusa. "If you want to live another day, I suggest you give this performance your all." The poetry of his song impressed me. Both inmates undeniably had talent, and that was all I knew. There were specific clauses in our contracts stipulating we could not look into their pasts under any circumstances to maintain complete impartiality, and U-Stream made sure we complied in every possible way: the service cut Internet access in my hotel room and confiscated most of my electronic devices the minute I arrived in Los Angeles. Besides, it seemed neither of them received much publicity at the time of their convictions. These men were no OJs, but their moment of fame had come. “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ” Inmate A concluded his heart-wrenching piece before dropping his acoustic guitar to the ground, so disenchanted that the welfare of the instrument barely mattered to him. The lyrics evoked a polymer of visceral pain and desperate regret - I had no doubt the words were his own. He stepped away from the stool and stood patiently by the side of the stage as Inmate B made his way up, a violin in hand. The three of us were seated on an elevated platform right in front of the stage in the prison courtyard, surrounded by a sea of correctional officers and prisoners. The environment felt very intimidating, certainly different from our usual studio settings back in the U.K. “Hello judges,” he said, approaching the microphone. “Today, I’ll be performing Paganini’s Caprice no. 24. I'm sure you'll find my life worth saving.” “Thank you for your positive attitude Inmate B,” replied Head Judge Foley without a hint of emotion. “Go ahead when you’re ready.” He launched into a breathtaking performance. The notes flowed at an unbelievable speed that defied my most optimistic expectations, without ever sacrificing intonation or melody. Other violin players had auditioned for Talent Hunters before; in that moment, I remembered them to be amateurs in the face of such a prodigious display of skill. I did not turn to look at my colleague’s faces yet imagined their reactions must have been the same. The decision seemed impossible to make, and I deeply regretted accepting the position in the first place. I enjoyed judging on the show when it dealt with regular people battling it out to win a Vegas show. Then the network cancelled us when ratings started to drop, so of course the producers went looking for something more sensational, something that would raise the stakes and attract new curious faces. A new deal was made in partnership with the streaming service and the U.S. Justice Department. Instead of welcoming regular people with a dream on the program, we went from judges to executioners: the talent show now focused on death row prisoners, trying to win a diluted sentence. Whoever the winner was, his life would be spared. The other would be executed on the spot in front of millions of people watching the live stream. Not by lethal injection, as was usually the case for executions: the producers chose beheading, for the sheer spectacle of it all. Such was the barbaric world of provocation we lived in. All it took was a sickening but novel concept to attract hordes of shock value aficionados. Inmate B reached the end of the piece, drawing applause from the ecstatic crowd. I could not tell whether they were in awe of the performance or simply thirsty for the blood that was about to be spilled. “What a sensational performance!” exclaimed Head Judge Foley. “Time to deliberate now. Inmate A, will you please come back to the center of the stage?” Inmate A walked towards the microphone accordingly. They both stood side by side, shaking violently as Death breathed down their necks. One would soon go under the scythe; it all came down to us three. For the first time, I had supreme power over someone’s life, and I hated it in every possible way. To my surprise, the other two appeared confident, perfectly composed in spite of the dreadful choice that weighed down on our shoulders. “Let me start,” said the Head Judge. “Inmate A, I was deeply touched by the eloquence of your lyrics. Thank you for writing such a powerful song imbued with heartfelt meaning, it will stay with me way beyond this competition.” She turned to Inmate B, whose body convulsions had worsened with every word of praise she showered on Inmate A. “As for you Inmate B, every note was played to perfection. It’s a very difficult decision, and I’m afraid it comes down to heart versus skill.” Their breaths stopped for a moment as she left them hanging. It was a long, unjustified dramatic pause that no doubt provided suspense for the viewers, but terror for the contestants. “I usually go with the heart. However, Inmate A's defeated attitude made me sway the other way. Inmate B, you're my choice.” The choice visibly bolstered Inmate B's confidence. He puffed his chest, ready to win. Judge Klaus spoke next. “As for me,” explained Klaus, “I agree with Judge Foley with regards to the heart versus skill dilemma.” My heart skipped a beat. If they both chose the same person, my vote wouldn’t be needed. Two out of three was enough to crown the winner and behead the loser. I prayed with every fiber of my being. Even though the prospect of remaining silent enticed me, a part of me felt profoundly ashamed: all I wanted was to avoid being accountable for the choice, not to save them from this torture. “I can’t side with her on the result though,” Klaus added. “This is a talent competition, not an assessment of confidence. Inmate A, you're my pick.” Hope vanished instantly. The votes were fifty/fifty. Both inmates looked at me with the imploring eyes of a dog headed for euthanasia. “Judge York,” said the Head Judge. “Will you please cast the tie-breaking vote?” I opened my mouth, but not a word came out. No matter how hard I tried to articulate, my jaw suffered from an acute case of paralysis. “Judge York?” she repeated. “Your decision please.” The fear radiating from the contestants was simply too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t make this decision. It’s not up to us, none of this is human! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how barbaric this whole thing is? Blood is on all of our hands for the mere act of thinking this was a good idea.” The Head Judge looked astounded. “This is your final word?” “Yes it is.” I expected her to side with me. For sure, she was about to realize the error of her ways and convince the producers to call off the contest. She took out her rulebook instead and flipped through its pages, still devoid of any emotion. “Very well. The rulebook states that in the absence of a deciding vote, the execution of any of the prisoners cannot proceed.” Relief surged over me. That’s it. I had averted this monstrous competition. “The belligerent judge will be executed instead.” Again, my jaw dropped, but not a word came out. The other two judges looked indifferently as bodyguards carried me up the stage. Now I knew for sure: they lusted for the blood, and so did the viewers of the livestream. “No, please! This must be a mistake, I beg you! I choose Inmate B, I do!” “I’m sorry,” said the Head Judge. “You confirmed it was your final word.” I found myself pressed against a wooden plank while the executioner approached. As for the two inmates, they remained still, staring at me with the empathy only someone who had come close to the plight I found myself in could feel. I did not know why they had been jailed, but I knew for sure they had more humanity left in them than many of the producers surrounding me. Inmate A picked up his guitar again, and sang me his song once more as the executioner’s blade grew closer to my neck: “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ”