The Judge
Nobody pays much attention to the man on the subway. Nobody ever does- to them he's just another crazy who talks to himself in the subways of New York. Nothing that stands out about him, nothing that piques a certain interest. As is the tendency with the crazed self-conversationalists he sits alone. Nobody willingly sits with him as they go on their day to day travels. When the travel is at its peak and the cars are packed full however, a man or woman may sit by him. In the unlikely event that this person is alone, without headphones, and not so preoccupied with their own lives then they might actually have a chance at hearing what the man has to say. If this person were to eavesdrop on the private discussion the man has publicly- if they choose to take interest in something so banal to New Yorkers- they'd discover something is far from banal about the murmurings. The man goes back and forth with a certain formality. The actual full sentences are inaudible but words can be caught here and there. "Sitting...allows her to...gives up seat..." But audible to those sitting next to him is always two words, always separated by more murmurings, never in a pattern, never more than just those single words. Innocent. And guilty.
