The Thorny Bird Crossing the White Night—Visiting Chiou Ho-shun

The term "Lu Cheng Case" had always existed in my memory, with keywords such as kidnapping for ransom and finalized death sentences revolving around it. It was not until I joined the JRF that the name "Chiou Ho-shun" replaced the Lu Cheng Case at the center of this terminology.

During my first visit to see A-shun at the Taipei Detention Center, just as I was about to introduce myself, A-shun spoke into the receiver, saying, "Wait a minute, classmate, let me give you a number so you can take it back to the JRF." And so, during those 20 minutes of visiting A-shun, I acquired a new name—"252," which is the current cumulative number of people who have visited him.

While chatting with A-shun, we talked about what he had been up to lately. With a radiant smile, A-shun said he had written three songs. He cleared his throat and immediately began to sing his self-composed tunes. Nearing the age of sixty, A-shun still sang into the receiver with immense vigor, his voice so resonant that I had to move the receiver slightly further from my ear to stop the echoes ringing in my mind. He sang all three songs in one breath, coming to a sudden halt like time itself—without seeing its appearance or any transitional traces, it had already reached the end. Is A-shun's life also like this? Can he still see the outline of his life? I vaguely remember the themes of his lyrics touched upon both the grievances he suffered and his expectations for Taiwan. If we were not meeting in a detention center, perhaps he would be just like the grandpas I usually encounter in the park—brewing tea, playing Chinese chess, and loving to grumble and talk about politics. Yet, we dare not even picture a life as simple and mundane as that. A-shun said, "Talking about the future now is entirely empty.

When the visiting time was over, we hung up the receivers and waited for the prison guard to take him back. The time spent gazing at each other suddenly became a bit awkward. I lowered my head and tried to write some words for him on my notepad. A thought that had never crossed my mind suddenly surged up unpreventably: "What if he really did it?" Having my own reaction catalyzed by such an over-emotional response, I kept my head down, not daring to raise the notepad on which I had written, "A-shun, keep it up!" "Tap, tap, tap," A-shun knocked on the glass window, and the prison guard came to take him away. I smiled and waved goodbye to him, watching his figure leave, never once picking up the notepad.

After leaving the detention center, I kept wondering: what made my train of thought collapse in an instant, starting from the incomplete evidence reports regarding Chiou Ho-shun that I had read so far (i.e., failing to meet the standard of proof beyond a reasonable doubt)? Nietzsche once said, "Every trial and execution is an anthropological festival." And the meaning referred to by a "festival" is that "regardless of its validity, it is a necessary ritual to pacify people's minds." Is A-shun merely a sacrifice in this festival? Has A-shun, who has spent thirty years of his life in prison, simply served as a ritual to give me and society peace of mind?

The Constitution regulates the abstract concept of fundamental rights, embodies its concrete contents through laws, and subsequently realizes them through procedural law. The purpose of criminal procedure lies in discovering substantive truth and protecting fundamental human rights. As for the objective of discovering substantive truth, I believe complete reconstruction of historical facts can only be achieved by gods. Therefore, in a trial, historical facts must be absolutely and objectively investigated (the constituent elements of criminal law provisions); this is where the duty of the law lies. The law should never be a myth, and the judiciary cannot evaluate so-called bad people or good people. When the judiciary evaluates a person as guilty, it does not mean he is a bad person in social evaluation; and when the judiciary evaluates a person as innocent, it does not mean he is a good person in social evaluation. The judiciary merely makes affirmative or negative conclusions based on its authority regarding the demonstration of evidentiary value in litigation. The law does not only see what it wants to see, but can only see what it is capable of seeing, and judges then make value judgments. Only through such exploration of facts is it possible to fulfill the primary task of criminal procedure—that is, the other purpose of criminal procedure: the protection of fundamental human rights. Derived from this purpose is the concept of due process of law, which emphasizes the process of determination in discovering the truth, namely, discovering the truth through strict adherence to procedures. Only by strictly observing these rules in procedure can the purpose of upholding human rights be achieved.

However, under a condition where the original matrix has long been lost and only a severed voiceprint appraisal report remains, with its evidentiary probative force being highly questionable, what made judges—who are bound by the rules of empirical logic and logical reasoning—form such a highly recognized conviction?
Radical legal realists believe that a judge's ruling is the law itself. Holmes also argued: "General propositions do not decide concrete cases. Decisions will depend on a judgment or intuition more subtle than any articulate major premise."

When adjudicators adopt a stance first and then look for reasons, have they already deviated from the purpose of exploring objective truth? And when human beings are reduced to mere means rather than being ends in themselves—that is, becoming tools for the exercise of state public power (violating the object formula)—their human dignity is obviously infringed upon.

I think criminal law is not the thug of justice, nor can it possibly be a solace for victims or their surviving families. When criminal law steps onto the stage, it merely signifies that someone is out of luck. And as an extremely brutal instrument of public power—a criminal sanction capable of twisting a person's life course—are we still just looking at Side A of the cassette tape, unwilling to take a look at Side B?