Sixty-three years ago, Jack Ruby stepped out of a crowd and killed Lee Harvey Oswald before the accused assassin of President John F. Kennedy could ever stand trial.

by Stephen Kastner

Today, “waiting for Jack Ruby” has become a state of mind.

Whether it is Tyler Robinson, Jeffrey Epstein, Lee Harvey Oswald, or the accused in any other case surrounded by unanswered questions, eventually the courtroom becomes the place where competing claims are supposed to collide with evidence.

Witnesses testify. Evidence is authenticated. Experts are challenged. Lawyers cross-examine. Assertions that have circulated for months are finally subjected to rules designed to separate what can be proven from what has merely been repeated.

And when public confidence in institutions deteriorates far enough, something disturbing happens: people begin to doubt whether that moment will ever arrive.

They begin waiting for Jack Ruby.

That is increasingly how I find myself looking at the Tyler Robinson case.

Robinson has pleaded not guilty to the murder of Charlie Kirk. Prosecutors have presented substantial evidence that they say connects him to the shooting. His defense has challenged important parts of that evidence. Meanwhile, statements recently attributed to Robinson’s father, Matt Robinson, directly dispute one of the most widely repeated claims about the case: that Tyler confessed to his father.

Those statements have not, to my knowledge, been independently authenticated. But if they are authentic, they make the underlying question more important, not less: What is the actual evidence that Tyler Robinson confessed to his father?

That is precisely the kind of question a trial exists to answer.

Questions the Trial Should Answer

• What does the complete surveillance record show about Robinson’s movements before and after the shooting?
• What do the ballistics actually establish about the recovered rifle, the spent casing and the projectile evidence?
• What can the DNA evidence on the rifle, towel and screwdriver establish, and what can it not establish about who possessed those objects, when they possessed them and how the DNA came to be there?
• What is the provenance of the alleged texts, Discord messages and other electronic communications attributed to Robinson? How were they obtained, authenticated and preserved?
• What evidence supports the claim that Robinson confessed to his father? Was the confession recorded? Were Robinson’s actual words documented contemporaneously? Who heard them firsthand?
• And if statements now attributed to Matt Robinson are authentic, how does the prosecution reconcile its account with a father who reportedly says: “He never confessed. Not to me or anyone else”?
• What does the complete timeline show about Robinson’s whereabouts that day? The same purported statements from his father raise another potentially testable claim: that Robinson may have been at a steakhouse in Panguitch. If that claim is serious, records should exist that can confirm or refute it.
• What does the forensic evidence establish about the fatal shot?
• What evidence establishes motive?
• And what evidence remains sealed, unreleased or otherwise unavailable to the public?

This Is Why We Have Trials

None of these questions proves Tyler Robinson innocent. Neither does asking them prove the prosecution wrong. They demonstrate something much simpler: this is exactly the kind of case in which the adversarial process matters.

The prosecution should have the opportunity to present its evidence. Robinson’s attorneys should have the opportunity to challenge it. Witnesses should testify under oath. Experts should explain their conclusions. Assertions should be distinguished from evidence. Evidence should be distinguished from inference.

And wherever possible, the public should be allowed to watch. Because something larger than the guilt or innocence of one defendant is now at stake.

Millions of Americans have watched enough extraordinary cases end without the questions they considered most important ever being tested in open court. That experience has created a peculiar modern anxiety: whenever a defendant possesses information that might radically alter the public understanding of an important event, some people begin wondering whether he will ever make it to the witness stand.

They begin waiting for Jack Ruby.

I am one of them.

Whether that expectation proves justified in the Tyler Robinson case remains to be seen. But perhaps the more troubling fact is that so many Americans have learned to expect it at all.