When power seeks to rewrite justice

ONCE in a while, the trail of government files reveals more about the state of a republic than any constitutional argument. This is exemplified by the Uttar Pradesh government’s bid to withdraw from prosecution in the Mohammed Akhlaq lynching case. It shows how political power tries to enter the courtroom, and how the law expects prosecutors and judges to hold the line.

The 2015 killing of Akhlaq still lingers in public memory. A mob entered a house, dragged a man out and killed him on the basis of a rumour. The brutality shocked the conscience of the country and exposed the fragility of communal peace. The trial that followed was not just a legal process. It was a measure of whether the system could remain steady amid social tensions.

In such a case, justice is not only about identifying the offenders. It is also about reaffirming the equal worth of every citizen. When the State itself attempts to end prosecution, the effect on the victim’s family and public confidence is impossible to ignore.

Section 321 of the now-repealed Code of Criminal Procedure, 1973, allowed withdrawal from prosecution only after the public prosecutor independently assessed the facts and found that withdrawal was in public interest. The Supreme Court, in various judgments (for instance, Sheonandan Paswan), has said that the government may recommend, but it cannot command.

The criminal procedure framework has been recast through the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita (BNSS). Section 321 is now Section 360 of the BNSS. The structure remains similar, but Parliament has added a significant safeguard through the following proviso: “Provided further that no Court shall allow such withdrawal without giving an opportunity of being heard to the victim in the case.”

This express requirement shifts the balance in an important way. It recognises that the victim’s voice is central to decisions that might close the doors of justice. It also ensures that the attempt to withdraw from prosecution cannot take place quietly or as a mere administrative formality.

In a case like Akhlaq’s, the safeguard is not a technicality. It is an essential check. A direction from a powerful government in a politically tense case rarely seems voluntary. It places a heavy duty on the prosecutor who must weigh the evidence carefully and refuse to become a vehicle for political convenience.

If he examines the record with honesty, it is difficult to see how public interest supports withdrawal. A man was lynched in his own neighbourhood. The case exposed the deep unease felt by minorities in moments of communal fear. It is not a concocted case. It is not a case suited for private settlement. Ending prosecution would imply that the State can treat a lynching case as dispensable when the political mood changes.

If the prosecutor files an application under Section 360, the judge must look at it with great care. The proviso now requires the court to hear the victim’s family before reaching any conclusion. This is not a mere courtesy. It is a substantive right.

The judge must demand all supporting material. He/she must ask why withdrawal is sought at this stage. The judge must consider the broader public impact. Courts have rejected similar applications in the past when the motives were doubtful. A lynching case requires even stricter scrutiny.

A firm refusal would not be an act of resistance. It would simply be an affirmation of judicial duty.

The attempt to withdraw from prosecution in the Akhlaq case comes after efforts by the state government to use withdrawal powers to cleanse the record of senior political leaders. Shortly after assuming office, the government sought to withdraw several cases against the chief minister and his colleagues. Some of those matters involved serious accusations. They were said to be politically motivated. Even if that were true in part, the sweeping nature of the attempt gave the impression that the State was using withdrawal powers not as a safety valve but as a political tool.

It set a precedent that now casts a shadow on other cases. It suggested that the law could be managed to ease the burden of those who command political strength.

The proviso to Section 360 gives Akhlaq’s family members a voice, but it also places a heavy responsibility on them. They must either oppose the withdrawal and continue to fight for justice, or accept it and surrender hope of a full trial. Both paths are painful.

Opposing the withdrawal requires the family to stand before the court and argue that the prosecution of their own neighbours, people they once knew, must continue. It forces them to reopen wounds they have carried for years. It puts them in the uncomfortable position of asking the State to pursue those who may live close by, which can carry social and personal risks.

Accepting the withdrawal would be no less difficult. It would mean letting go of their search for justice and carrying the lifelong burden that the State treated their loss as negotiable. It would also send a troubling message to other victims of communal violence: that the system might not stand by them if political considerations pull the case in another direction. The new law acknowledges this hardship by giving victims a hearing. But the emotional, social and moral cost remains theirs to bear.

The Indian system, by design, gives governments a formal channel to request withdrawal from prosecution. The safety mechanism lies in the independence of prosecutors, the oversight of courts and now the statutory right of victims to be heard.

In the US, State-level prosecution is led by independently elected district attorneys. Federal prosecution is led by attorneys who, though appointed by the President, function within a system that expects professional independence. Internal Justice Department rules, the possibility of congressional oversight and public scrutiny make direct political instructions in individual cases far harder to implement.

A President cannot order a local prosecutor to drop a murder case. If the case is federal, any attempt to influence the process triggers a debate within the department, resistance from career officials and rapid media attention. Misuse is still possible, but it must work through informal pressure rather than a direct statutory route like Section 360.

The Indian model, with a formal withdrawal mechanism, places much heavier responsibility on prosecutors, judges and now victims to resist attempts to steer justice.

In the Akhlaq case, the path ahead is clear. The court must demand full disclosure of the reasons for withdrawal. It must give his family a fair chance to speak. It must assess whether the application is grounded in public interest or driven by political pressure.

If the court finds no genuine basis for withdrawal, it must refuse consent. Such an order would reassure the public that justice is not a seasonal exercise. It would help the family members in their search for closure. It would also remind the State that prosecution cannot be switched on and off depending on the mood of the moment.

A republic remains steady only when its institutions resist pressure with calm strength. Prosecutors must remember whom they serve. Judges must remember the promise they guard. Victims must be treated with dignity, not as obstacles to political comfort. If the Akhlaq prosecution continues on its proper path, it will show that the justice system still has the fortitude to stand firm when it matters most.