Please be seated. Good morning. Court is now in session. Calling the case 25143576, State of Utah versus Tyler James Robinson. Council, could you enter your appearances, please? Uh Chad Grunander, Jeff Gray, Lauren Hunt, Ryan McBride, and Chris Ballard [music] for the state, your honor. >> Good morning, councils. >> Good morning, your honor. Kathy Nester, Michael Bert, and Richard Novak on behalf of uh Mr. Robinson. >> Morning, your honor. >> Good morning to you all. >> Morning. >> And to the jail, do we have Mr. Robinson present? >> Yes, your honor. >> All right. Uh Mr. Robinson. Good morning to you as well. Council, as we begin, I have entered orders allowing the admittance of Mr. Michael Bert, Mr. Richard Novak Prohawk Viche, and appointing them along with Miss Katherine Netor uh to be Mr. Robinson's counsel. The court enters findings that the combined experience of council meets and exceeds the requirements of rule [music] eight. Council, do we have uh what would what would we like to accomplish today? Uh I have two items, judge. I just wanted to make a record that under rule 16 of the Utah rules of criminal procedure with respect to discovery. Uh the state is required to provide to the defense within 5 days of the defense's request the discovery that we relied on in making this charging decision. We'll prepare to we'll be be prepared to do that. So we'll look for uh uh defense council's um request or the next day or so and we'll provide that to the defense. >> Thank you. Um, we also for the court's information, we met this morning with the defense team briefly in our office to talk about discovery and the process. [music] So, we'll be working together. There is a substantial amount of discovery in this case, your honor. It's voluminous to say the least. Um, and we're working on a process where we can exchange information as quickly as possible and be efficient in that process. Um, the other item I had, your honor, I saw that over the the weekend there was a protection order, pre-trial and trial publicity order entered by by your honor. And I just was seeking some clarification on page two uh at the end of the first paragraph. It reads, "To that end, lawyers participating in the investigation or litigation of this case shall inform all witnesses, investigators, consultants, staff members, or other members of the prosecution or defense teams that the prohibitions contained about the prohibitions contained in this order. Um, the state, we're seeking some clarification with respect to the phrase all witnesses, your honor. Um there are a number of witnesses that have yet to be identified uh that will likely be used in the state's case. Uh this occurred in front of 2 to 3,000 students at Utah Valley University. Uh so we're in the process of identifying those witnesses. And so those individuals are presently unknown right now. So we're looking for a little clarification from the court. Um and I suppose uh we're not going to make any arguments today, but there may be some follow-up pleadings that we may need to file. Thank you. Uh, Miss Nester, did you want to be heard about that issue? >> No, your honor, we would defer to whatever the court wants to advise them on that matter. Um, I mean, I think it's fairly obvious that we don't know who all the witnesses are in this case yet. Um, I think it's just important [music] that if anyone um is identified that they have information about this order. So, I think other than that, we wouldn't weigh in on any other matter. >> Thank you. But today I do wish to provide guidance and expectations that you can have for this court [music] and wish to enter an order as well. As this case moves forward, Mr. Robinson's constitutional rights will be protected at every stage. He sits before this court presumed innocent and that presume unless and until each element of every offense charged against him is proved beyond a reasonable doubt. At the same time and as applicable, victims are entitled under our constitution to be treated with fairness, respect, and dignity free from harassment [music] or abuse. Justice demands that both of these principles, the rights of the accused and the rights of victims, be honored without compromise. I remain steadfast in my oath that I made 56 days ago to support and defend the Constitutions of the United States and of Utah. I will carry out my duties with fidelity, transparency, and impartiality, treating every person who appears before me with the dignity and respect they are inherently due because they are human beings. Let me be clear, I will not put my finger on the scale of justice. These proceedings will be open to the public, conducted in accordance with the law, and handled with diligence and competence to ensure that justice is never compromised. It is the standing order of this court that Mr. Robinson shall be allowed to appear in person so he can fully engage with his attorneys and p participate in these legal proceedings. council. Regardless of who is watching, whether it is the nation or a single individual, we must [music] fulfill our roles with integrity, civility, and diligence. I encourage each of you to give your very best to [music] this case. Neither Mr. Robinson nor the people of Utah deserve anything less than the fair and impartial administration of justice. Imagine losing someone you love and watching the world talk about them as if they were just another headline. Sounds unfair, right? But what if I told you that's exactly what happened to Erica Kirk, the widow of Charlie Kirk? Trust me, you're going to want to hear this. So, here's the thing. While the news cycles spin and the courts move at their own slow pace, there's a woman sitting quietly day after day, feeling grief that no motion or legal argument can touch. Erica Kirk's story isn't just about loss. It's about patience, silence, and the cruel contrast between law and humanity. And it makes you wonder, how do we measure justice when someone we love is gone. Picture this, a courtroom buzzing with lawyers, judges, and reporters. Everyone is talking about evidence, procedures, filings, all the technical stuff. DNA here, fingerprints there, and Erica, she's just sitting quietly absorbing it all. Not because she has nothing to say, but because she knows something most people don't. That grief can't be rushed. And justice, well, it doesn't always move with your heartbreak. Every court date, every motion, every delay. It's like reopening a wound that will never fully heal. And you know what's worse? While the legal world remembers dates, documents, and deadlines, families remember birthdays missed, empty chairs at dinner tables, and quiet mornings when someone should have been there. Imagine having to watch the life of your loved one being dissected like a case study, while the person responsible gets procedural protections at every turn. You'd feel the unfairness, too, right? And there's this heavy, quiet kind of power in Erica's silence. It's not weakness. It's not giving up. It's the stillness that comes when words fail. When nothing you say can bridge the gap between what should have been and what is. Every glance, every sigh, every quiet moment is her way of honoring Charlie Kirk of saying without saying that he mattered that his life was real and that it doesn't belong to courtrooms or headlines. And here's the gut punch. While Erica's world is paused in grief, the system moves on like clockwork. Legal rights are preserved. Motions are filed. Delays are counted as wins. But for the family, every tick of that clock feels like time stolen from someone who can never come back. And that that's the paradox. The accused moves forward. The victim's loved ones are left waiting, left silent, left aching. It's heartbreaking, right? So, next time you read a headline or hear about a case dragging on, remember the quiet ones behind the story. The families, the widows, the ones who live with loss every single day. Erica's silence is speaking louder than any argument in court. And maybe, just maybe, it's asking us to pay attention to what really matters. If you found this story interesting, don't forget to subscribe. More shocking stories coming your way. All right, so now imagine this. A crime scene, DNA, evidence, fingerprints, messages, every little detail carefully collected. And yet, it somehow feels like justice is moving at a glacial pace. Crazy, right? You won't believe how much the system focuses on process over people. Here, what's happening in Tyler Robinson's case? Investigators are connecting dots, gathering evidence, piecing together a story that's chilling, precise, and terrifying. And yet, every step forward seems to hit a wall of paperwork, legal arguments, and technicalities. And trust me, it's not just >> someone somewhere already decided who the villain would be before the facts were even clear. DNA, >> contrary to early suggesting that Tyler's father had encouraged his son to step forward, Owens claimed the family's experience was far different. She said they were never officially contacted, never briefed, never informed, and only discovered Tyler's name in connection with the case through a private message from a family friend. Imagine that moment itself learning about your own child's fate, not from authorities, but from a whisper. It's the kind of twist that turns grief into disbelief. >> According to Owens, this wasn't a picture of a family hiding something. It was the image of parents left in the dark, confused, isolated, and watching from the sidelines as their son's story unfolded without them. >> A family not in control. They're waiting for a process that seems endless. Each delay, each hearing feels like another reminder that the system protects rights, but doesn't always protect hearts. Imagine watching the person accused of ending your loved one's life get every safeguard in the book while you're left counting the days, the missed birthdays, the empty chairs. That's a heavy, heavy burden. And you know what makes it even more painful? every new piece of evidence instead of speeding things up often slows the case down. The more investigators find the more motions are filed, the more arguments about procedure pop up. It's like the system is designed to be perfect, but in its perfection, it forgets the very people it's supposed to serve. Frustrating, right? So, the takeaway here, evidence matters, DNA, fingerprints, messages. They tell a story. But in the courtroom, that story isn't just about what happened. It's about how it's presented, argued, and documented. And sometimes that focus on procedure can feel like a cruel pause button on grief. If you found this story interesting, don't forget to subscribe. More shocking stories coming your way. Here's something that will make you stop and think. In this case, the person accused moves forward with protections, rights, and strategy, while the family who lost everything is left waiting, counting delays, and feeling every second of their pain. Crazy, right? Welcome back everyone. So far, we've talked about grief and evidence. But now we get to the real paradox, the courtroom itself. It's where fairness is promised, but heartbreak is often ignored. Where every procedural win for the accused can feel like another wound for the family. And trust me, this contrast is sharper than it seems. Picture a typical hearing. Lawyers arguing technicalities, motions filed, counterotions flying across the room. Every procedural safeguard is meticulously enforced. And that's how the system is supposed to work, right? Protecting rights is essential. But here, the heartbreaking part for the family, each of these safeguards feels like a roadblock, a delay, a reminder that the person they lost will never come back. Meanwhile, the accused Tyler Robinson gets time, preparation, advice, and every opportunity to ensure his rights are intact. And that's fair in a legal sense. But for Erica Kirk and her loved ones, it doesn't feel fair at all. Every courtroom victory for him, every motion granted, every delay, it widens the gap between justice as written in law and justice as felt in the heart. >> Imagine sitting in that courtroom day after day watching people debate the minuti of evidence while your entire world has been shattered. That's the paradox. Legal fairness exists. Emotional fairness not so much. And you can see why it hurts so much. Because the law is blind to grief, yet grief is painfully visible. And here's the gut punch. The more meticulous the legal process, the slower closure comes. The system's insistence on perfection creates emotional pause buttons for the families. Every filing, every postponement, every argument about admissibility feels like the world telling them. Your loss is secondary. Your grief will wait. And that that's the part most people don't talk about. It's a paradox where fairness for one creates suffering for another. And it's exhausting to watch, right? So, here's the thing. The courtroom is a place of law, not of heart. It ensures rights are protected and procedures are followed. Yes. But it can't measure pain. It can't speed up grief. And it certainly can't bring back the person who's gone. That's the paradox. The legal system works perfectly, but sometimes perfectly doesn't feel like justice at all. >> If you found this story interesting, don't forget to subscribe. More shocking stories coming your way. >> Have you ever stopped to think about the cost of justice? Not just in dollars or hours, but in heartbreak, trust, and faith in the system. Stick with me because what happened to the Kirk family isn't just a personal tragedy. It's a warning for all of us. >> So, we've seen grief, we've seen evidence, and we've seen the courtroom in action. But now, let's zoom out. This case isn't just about one family, one accused, or one tragic loss. It's about what happens when the system is so focused on procedure that it forgets the people it's meant to serve. And trust me, it hits harder than you think. Think about it. Families across the nation are watching. They see every hearing, every filing, every delay, and they start asking themselves if this is how justice treats one family. How safe are our own loved ones in the system? How often do procedures protect the accused but fail to comfort the grieving? And it's not just about one widow or one family. It's about the community, friends, neighbors, even strangers who once believed in fairness. Every delay, every technical debate chips away at trust. People begin to wonder, does the system really value life or just paperwork? Does fairness extend to the living and the dead or only to the accused? Erica Kirk's silence speaks volumes here. It's patient, deliberate, and deeply human. But it also highlights a harsh reality. Compassion often gets buried under protocol. The legal system can be clinical, methodical, and unbothered by pain. And the more we normalize that, the more we risk erasing empathy from justice altogether. Imagine a world where grief is measured in days of delay, where accountability is lost in paperwork, and where silence becomes the only voice for the victims. That's the world the Kirk family has been forced to navigate. And every family watching sees pieces of their own fear reflected in this process. And here's the gut-wrenching truth. When society gets used to seeing compassion sidelined, we all lose. It's not just Erica's heartbreak anymore. It becomes ours. When legal victories for the accused overshadow the grief of the families, when procedure eclipses empathy, the moral fabric of justice phrase. And that's terrifying, right? Because this isn't just a case. It's a mirror. A mirror showing us how easily fairness can look perfect on paper while feeling hollow in the human heart. So, what do we take from this? We remember that justice isn't just about motions and filings. It's about people. It's about memory. It's about the courage to honor what's lost. And it's about insisting that the system serves humanity, not just rules. If you found this story interesting, don't forget to subscribe. More shocking stories coming your way here. Something that really hits. What happens when the person who could speak for themselves is gone forever and the system only listens to papers, motions, and procedures. Crazy, right? But this is exactly what the Kirk family is facing. >> So, let's talk about silence. Erica Kirk isn't making headlines. She isn't giving statements. She's quiet, but that silence is loud. It tells a story that no courtroom argument can capture. It's about grief, yes, but also about a question that all of us need to ask. When the law follows procedure perfectly, who is it really serving? >> Imagine sitting there day after day while lawyers argue over the tiniest detail, commas, timestamps, admissibility, while the person you loved most isn't here to have their life remembered fully. Every motion filed, every procedural victory for the accused, it's a reminder that the law cares about correctness, not compassion. And that's hard to swallow, right? >> Erica's silence becomes a symbol not of defeat, but of endurance. Every empty courtroom chair, every argument over paperwork, every delay, it's all happening while the memory of Charlie Kirk risks being reduced to footnotes. And that's the moral question. When we protect rights so perfectly, do we sometimes lose humanity in the process? >> And it's bigger than just one family. If we accept that delays, technicalities, and procedure are more important than remembering the people lost, then we all share in that loss. It becomes a collective silence. It's a quiet eraser of memory, a slow fatting of responsibility. And if we get used to that, if society gets comfortable watching compassion buried under rules, what kind of justice are we normalizing? >> And here's the punch. Tyler Robinson, the accused, moves forward, protected at every turn. But the Kirk family, they're left with reminders with memories with a system that can't give them closure. Charlie Kirk's story. His life is still asking questions no court can answer. Who bears responsibility? How do we honor memory when procedure is king? When silence speaks louder than words, whose side does it really take? And that's the part that makes you stop and think. >> This isn't just law. It's a moral reckoning. >> So, what can we do? We remember. We insist that stories like Charlie's don't get lost in legal jargon. We ask the questions the courts can't answer about fairness, about empathy, and about what truly matters in justice. Because a verdict isn't just a word on a page. It's a measure of our courage to honor memory, to protect humanity, and to insist that justice remembers why it began in the first place. If you found this story interesting, don't forget to subscribe. More shocking stories coming your way.