Justice on Trial: Lessons from Frankenstein

In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, justice is neither blind nor impartial—it is fraught with prejudice, fear, and a refusal to confront inconvenient truths. This is nowhere more evident than in the tragic story of Justine Moritz (she served as both a servant and nanny to William Frankenstein), whose trial and execution in Chapters 8 and 9 serve as a searing indictment of societal judgment and the failures of the legal system. Her fate is not only a critique of 19th-century jurisprudence but also a mirror to contemporary struggles in the pursuit of justice.

Justine’s trial is a masterclass in how fear distorts reason. Accused of murdering young William Frankenstein, Justine is convicted based on circumstantial evidence—a locket found in her possession—and the presumption of her guilt. Her demeanor, described as “firm and placid,” is twisted into proof of her supposed malevolence. As Victor recounts, “She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance of courage.” The court, fueled by the collective anxiety of the townspeople, does not seek truth but rather the reassurance of swift punishment. It is justice as performance, designed to restore a fragile sense of order, regardless of the cost to an innocent life.

Victor Frankenstein knows the truth. He alone understands that his creature, the product of his ambition, is responsible for William’s death. Yet he remains paralyzed by guilt and self-interest. In his own words, he confesses, “I bore a hell within me which nothing could extinguish.” His silence speaks to a broader theme: the complicity of the powerful in perpetuating injustice. Victor admits, “A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings of a madman.” This rationalization captures the essence of his failure: he prioritizes his reputation over the truth, condemning an innocent person to death.

This conflict resonates with young adults in surprising ways. Consider how peer pressure or fear of social rejection can silence someone who knows the truth. When harm occurs—whether through bullying, hazing, or exclusion—how often do witnesses stay silent, rationalizing their inaction by assuming someone else will step in? Victor’s moral paralysis mirrors the challenges young adults face when standing up against injustice in their own lives. Shelley's novel challenges us to consider the cost of silence—not just for the victim, but for the bystander who carries the guilt of their inaction.

Shelley’s depiction of Justine’s trial resonates far beyond the confines of her novel. In her society, as in ours, justice systems are vulnerable to manipulation by fear, prejudice, and misinformation. Think of contemporary cases where public opinion or social media narratives have overshadowed facts, leading to wrongful accusations or “canceling” someone without evidence. The same forces that condemned Justine—misplaced trust in appearances, the need for a scapegoat, and the collective desire to avoid discomfort—continue to shape outcomes in modern communities.

For emerging adults, this theme might be most relatable in the context of social media, where public judgment can feel swift and unforgiving. Like Justine, individuals accused of wrongdoing can find themselves vilified, their pleas for understanding drowned out by the mob. Victor’s fear of speaking up echoes the apprehension many feel when navigating online spaces: the fear of saying the wrong thing, of being misunderstood, or of being targeted themselves. The lesson is clear—whether in a 19th-century courtroom or a 21st-century Instagram comment section, justice is too easily corrupted by groupthink and fear.

Moreover, Shelley’s narrative highlights the moral costs of injustice. Victor’s inaction haunts him, but it also implicates his entire community. Elizabeth Lavenza’s impassioned defense of Justine is a rare moment of courage, as she declares, “I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope.” Her pleas, though heartfelt, are dismissed, reflecting the court’s unwillingness to disrupt its own narrative. Elizabeth’s role as an advocate can inspire young adults to consider their own capacity for advocacy. Who among us has the courage to stand against a tide of public opinion, even when the odds of success are slim? Shelley reminds us that such courage, while rare, is what defines true integrity.

The themes of guilt and responsibility are especially poignant for readers grappling with questions of accountability in their own lives. Victor’s realization—“I am the true murderer”—is a stark acknowledgment of how inaction can harm others. For young adults, this might translate to understanding the ripple effects of everyday choices. What happens when we turn a blind eye to a peer’s harmful behavior, or when we let assumptions guide our actions instead of seeking the truth? Shelley’s narrative invites readers to examine these questions, making the novel not just a critique of justice but a call to personal responsibility.

What makes Frankenstein so powerful is its refusal to offer easy answers. Shelley’s critique of justice is intertwined with her exploration of human nature—our capacity for empathy, our susceptibility to fear, and our tendency to prioritize personal safety over collective responsibility. In Justine’s story, we see not only a miscarriage of justice but also a failure of community, a reminder that the pursuit of truth and equity requires courage, not complacency.

In revisiting Shelley’s masterpiece, we are called to consider how our own systems of justice measure up. Do we act with integrity, or do we allow fear and prejudice to guide our decisions? As the novel suggests, the cost of silence is high, and the burden of guilt is one that cannot be easily cast aside. If we wish to avoid the mistakes of Victor Frankenstein, we must confront our own complicity and strive for a justice that is not only fair but fearless.