What Justice Cannot Hold

This is my testament to all of you. I hope you do not judge me too harshly for what I have done. I know my career is over. But I ask you to read my story and try to understand why I had to make that decision. Please, ask yourself: would you have done the same? Is your sense of justice stronger than mine? Would your spirit of justice break under the weight of love? Would it still fight as the last standing tree battered by winds?

Everything started when I was a little boy. I don’t have many memories of my childhood, but I vividly remember one afternoon that shaped my entire life. That day, I decided who I wanted to be as an adult and what was going to be my career.

Janette, my older sister, and I were playing outside in our grandparents’ garden. It was a warm afternoon—“hell hot,” as the adults would say—and my sister and I made the most of the sunshine, running around the pond at the far end of the garden.

The pond was a natural one, and the fauna was flourishing. As kids, my sister and I were obsessed with it; we would play at its edge whenever the weather was good, and sometimes even when it was raining cats and dogs. When we would get tired of looking at the fish and other animals, we would run around the perimeter, jumping and dancing, pretending to be Native Americans dancing for rain.

That afternoon, we were chasing each other around the pond; I played the bull, and my sister was the torero. The trees casting shadows on the grass and over us, while sunlight pierced through the leaves, creating a play of light. I remember looking at my sister’s hair—it seemed to glow when the sun hit it, enhancing the strawberry-blonde color. Her lashes, also ginger, almost disappeared under the light, giving her a funny, ethereal look. Janette, with her thin, freckled arms, was slamming a towel into the air to mimic the matador, and I jumped toward it.

All of a sudden, her face distorted and vanished. The white of the towel closed up on me, I fought against it. Green leaves, pierced by the sun. Then, the view changed again—light sand brown, getting darker every microsecond, and then peach black. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, water filled my nose, and my head was heavy. I couldn’t stand up. I wanted to scream, but my body was not responding.

A scream.

Running footsteps.

I felt lighter, my eyes saw the blue of the sky, and some blurred faces - that I could still recognise as my grandad's and Janette’s. I could breathe again.

I don’t remember exactly how, but I ended up sitting in the living room with some guys in ambulance uniforms who, as I learned later on, were taking my pressure and checking on me. At one point, one of them said to my grandpa, Alan, that they had to call the police and report the accident to social workers. I have never seen Alan more worried and angry than that day. He started saying it was definitely not necessary, and if my mum was worried he couldn’t handle his nephews, she would tell him herself, not some ‘stupid fucking policemen or social workers.’

“I am sorry, Sir, but this is the usual procedure. We cannot leave until this is reported to the police.”

“I love my nephews, and I would never let anything happen to them, young boy. Do you understand? I am the one who called you to check on the kid. I am responsible, and I know how to love and care for them. So NO, No cops involved!!”

The argument kept going, but I started wandering into another dreamy world instead of listening to it. Maybe if I had listened, I might have picked up more details of why my grandad did not want any police involved, but I did not. I can only say, I have never seen Grandpa so worried about the police coming to the house. The idea that someone could take away my sister and me must have been excruciating. I remember tears trickling from his left eye, and he looked so small and afraid. Fortunately, the police came but did not do anything apart from calling my parents and telling them what happened. It was that moment that I realised I wanted to be as fair and just as that man had been with grandad. He had been the hero of the situation- yes, my grandpa saved me from drowning, and yes, the paramedic checked that I was healthy, but the policeman decided not to tear my grandpa and me apart; he saw how much my grandpa loved me and helped him. That was what I wanted to do: bring justice to every home and help people like my grandpa. Alan will be proud of me, I thought.

He was not, and it broke my heart.

He was sitting in his usual armchair. He was older now and could not hold steady on his feet, so when I arrived, he acknowledged me with a nod and a smile. You could see he was tired, but his eyes were still bright under his bushy white eyebrows. His icy blue eyes were piercing, yet when they met mine, they seemed to smile - filled with both joy and sadness, since I reminded him of my grandma’s smile. He was there, in that old dusty chair, listening to my life updates with interest. When I mentioned the police school, he looked at me in horror, his eyes turning into pure coldness, his face contorting into a disgusted grimace. His face was screaming disappointment, but there was something nearly comical in the wrinkled face trying to show disapproval but managing only to look like an old toad about to extend its tongue to catch a fly. When I finished, after a long silence, he simply asked with a cold, bland voice.

“Why?”

“Why, What?”

“Why did you have to pick that as your profession? A policeman…Why? I thought you were wiser than that.”

“I don’t understand Grandpa. What’s the problem with joining the police? I want to be of help to the village. Like you”

“Stop it there! I do not want to hear any of these stupid ideologies. They are just words…what about your passions? You were passionate about many subjects in school …and the sports you excel at? Why the police? It isn’t like the TV shows you watch, you know? No big crimes or heists, it's just little dangerous banalities of life. No big cases, no helping the community, or finding murderers.”

I did not know how to answer. Yes, I did have other passions, I could have easily been a Chemist or maybe a professional swimmer, but since I was ten, I dreamed of being a policeman, and CSI or NCIS got me even more into solving crimes. I always thought he would be proud of me for deciding to help people. I grew up loving my grandpa so much that it hurt me knowing that he did not accept what I wanted to do with my life, even though I thought about doing that for him from the beginning. So, I said what every hurt eighteen-year-old teenager would say when put on the spot, and I could not regret it more. Sometimes I still can see the scene in my head, and I feel so guilty and ashamed every time. It became one of the biggest traumas of my adult life.

“Shut up, you are just a resentful old man who does not have a life and wants to make everyone else as miserable as you. If you do not accept it, then I do not accept you. You are already dead to me.”

I will never forget the look in his eyes just before I slammed the door; they were wet and cloudy, his face contorted in a painful expression that I could not understand, and it puzzled me. He was looking at me, he was weeping, his face in full sorrow, but his mouth was stretched back, and a faint tremor quivered through his lower lip. It was the kind of expression that spoke of panic and not heartbroken love. I never went back until the day of the funeral.

The police school was harder than expected, but I enjoyed it. Every day we would have physical training, inside or outside, we had lessons where they would teach us law and give us examples of our future day-to-day cases. My favourite course, though, was the study of old cases, some were cold cases and unsolved; they were my favourite. I would scan any details, the photos, the physical finds, the interrogation records, everything to find a clue that everyone else did not notice that could solve the case. I never succeeded until I started looking in other directions.

CASE FILE: 3049BFC

DATE: 16/07/1967

INCIDENT: Robbery at Richardson & Son Jewellers

LOCATION: 25 High Street, Selkirk

At 07:36 AM, Mr. Richardson reported a robbery at his shop, Richardson & Son, located at 25 High Street, Selkirk. He and his son discovered the break-in upon arriving to prepare for the usual 8:00 AM opening.

The suspect is believed to be the individual known as the “Ginger Ghost”, responsible for a series of similar robberies in the Galashiels–Selkirk area. This incident marks a significant escalation: for the first time, the offender has used violence. Previous robberies attributed to the Ginger Ghost involved neither injuries nor witnesses, indicating the suspect is growing increasingly confident and unafraid to harm others.

A potential witness, Elspeth Cloy, the shop’s cleaning lady, was found brutally beaten inside the premises. She was transported to the ER, where her condition was uncertain.

The scene revealed no evidence beyond his usual signature: a single daisy left in place of the stolen item. Only one piece—a valuable necklace—was taken, while all other jewellery remained untouched.

Further investigation should refer to the Ginger Ghost case folder for patterns connected to previous incidents.

PS: Elspeth Cloy's condition has been assessed as a permanent vegetative state, making it impossible to obtain any testimony from her.

I was intrigued by the story of Ginger Ghost, nearly obsessed. Ginger Ghost sounded like a modern Robin Hood stealing from the “rich”. He stole only a piece at a time, and no one knew why. Was it easier to sell one jewel at a time on the black market? Probably. But why leave the flower? Was this his way of paying? More likely an unfair barter. He stole a total of fifteen jewels: fifteen robberies and never caught. One witness saw him from behind in 1966, saying he had long ginger hair. It was this detail that gave the burglar the name Ginger Ghost. During the witness's testimony, he said he was not sure if the Ghost was a man or a woman, as he saw a slim figure not too tall. However, the police assumed he was a man and referred to the burglar as such.

I read all the case reports, but none satisfied my burning curiosity. Nothing seemed relevant. Nothing was there, except his signature: the daisy. Even the pictures were of little help. They were in color rather than black and white, but the quality was poor that only the colors offered any clue to what was being shown. Between the pictures, there were also cutouts of journals or catalogs showing the stolen goods, to help identify them in case someone was wearing them or tried to sell them. I was skimming the documentation in my room when something caught my eye. I was not sure, but could it be? I took the picture of a stolen necklace, the pendant mounted on a richly embellished structure with gold leaves hugging the stone, looked familiar, something I had seen before, but I could not place where or when. On reanalyzing the others, I realised that more elements of the jewels were familiar to me. Of 15 jewels, I recognised 9 details and I could picture them. I had to go see for myself if that was true or if I was creating false memories.

I haven’t been in the house since the funeral, and going felt like intruding on a hollow place. My guilt was suffocating. I was scared to feel my grandpa’s icy eyes looking at me with sorrow. I did not want to be there, but I had to. I needed evidence that I was wrong, that my Granpa could not have possibly been the “Ginger Ghost”. I turned the key and hesitantly went inside. I knew what I was looking for. I started comparing the 15 photos to the stick’s pommels, which my grandparents collected. Three matched. I kept looking, the glass vase in the library shelf had a few stones mounted on it, again, it matched photos 3 and 4. I went to the kitchen, the Christian cross hanging from the wall. Photo 8: match. I struggled to go upstairs, my head was spinning, my heartbeat irregular, and cold sweat was dripping down my body. Had my grandpa been an outlaw? I needed more evidence, not to confirm what was obvious, but desperately to find something to deny it. In the bedroom, I started opening drawers, tossing them once I finished, opening the wardrobe, looking inside every pocket of my grandpa’s jacket. I found and identified more stolen jewels. Up to 11 pieces were in my grandparents’ house. Then, while I was looking under the blankets on the highest shelf of the wardrobe, a notebook fell at my feet. I picked it up, as if I were a kid unaware of all the world around me, sat on the floor, crossing my legs, I started reading. I do not know how long I spent reading, but when I finished, it was dusk.

I will not transcribe the content of the diary as it contains the secrets of a loving couple, with their arguments, feelings, deepest thoughts, and so on. I will write what is relevant to make you understand who Ginger Ghost was, and the reasons behind the character. Ginger Ghost was not one person but two, Alan and Margaret. Their story was a love story of contempt, acceptance, and eventually resolution.

Margaret began stealing jewellery after moving to Scotland with Alan. At first, it was just clothes from shops in Galashiels, things to impress, stolen for fun. But eventually, frustrated by Alan’s lack of interest in “treating” her with fine jewellery, she decided to get it herself.

In her diary, she wrote of her disgust at the poor life they were living. She confessed that she hated Alan for being content without wealth and planned to leave him as soon as she had enough money. Margaret explained why she stole just one piece at a time, and surprisingly, it was guilt. She did not want to steal other people’s wealth and make them poorer. It also made it easier to conceal from Alan when the jewels were in the house. And the flower? It was her way to say “I am sorry” to the people she wronged.

Eventually, Alan discovered what Margaret was doing. They argued. The diary doesn’t describe the details, but it reveals that after a violent fight, they made love. The next day, Margaret wrote a long entry explaining that Alan had agreed to help her. He would take on some of the robberies, and he would find ways to repurpose the stolen jewellery into things they could use to decorate their future home together.

The final entry is short, but devastating. Margaret confessed that she was overwhelmed with guilt. She admitted that if not for her own greed, none of this would have happened. Alan had promised her that, if it ever came to it, he would take the blame.

She wrote that she had discovered she was pregnant just the day before her last robbery. When she saw the woman inside the shop, she panicked. She knew she had to act fast. In her desperation, she struck the woman—just enough, she thought, to keep her from calling the police. But she hadn’t realized how fragile people are.

Margaret wasn’t trying to kill. She was trying to protect her future—to make sure her child would grow up with her.

Now you know the truth. And maybe you understand why I could never walk into a police station and spill it all. I tried. God knows I tried. But every time I got close, something inside me broke. I didn’t have the strength.

Yes, my grandma hurt someone, yes, my grandparents were outlaws, and yes, we still have some of the stolen goods. But all the people involved in this story are dead. Testifying would break my family. Would my parents and my sister still cherish their memories of Nana and Grandpa? Or would they turn cold, ashamed of their blood? I couldn’t let that happen. I would not accept that. My grandparents did what they did, but they did it for love, to create a future for my dad. I would never justify them, yet I cannot condemn their acts. Reading my grandma’s words, I know she regretted what she did all her life, and she condemned herself to a life of guilt. So why should I transfer that guilt onto my family? And now, everything makes sense—the way Grandpa stiffened whenever the word “police” came up, the way he fought my dream of joining the force. He wasn’t just being stubborn. He was afraid—afraid I’d find out. I understand why.

So here it is. The truth, laid bare. Do what you will with it. Turn me in. Burn these pages. Walk away. Whatever you choose… I’ll live with it.