An American in an Iranian court

So, I was pulled into a room with a chair. There were no windows and it smelled like death. Under the metal chair was a painting accident or the mess of fifty some people -- blood, feces, urine and who knows what else.

"I thought I was going to court to be tried."

"You are", said the voice behind me.

"The guilty will sit in the seat to begin the...", unnatural pause, "trial process." It wasn't that their English wasn't good, it was that "trial process" was not by barristers and magistrates, but rather by trial, like convicted witches. Innocent and guilty both die here. My heart pounded trying to find a way out.

I am sat in a chair, bound to it and a bright light is cast on me. Unlike police movies, it is not to make me sweat, but rather to allow the inquisitor to see like a dentist at a chair or a surgeon in ER, I am to be dissected and gutted.

Before I die I wonder what was my crime ... my sin ... my guilt ... as my screams begin and my agony starts, I remember.

I asked a question, "why".

Questions are more dangerous than guns here.