In ninth grade, I had to write a paper about Shakespeare’s play Julius Caeser. In it, I had to analyze the character of Brutus—the friend of Caesar who agrees that the leader’s ambition is faulty to the nation. With regret almost from the outset, he helps in the brutal assassination of his former friend. In one of the most memorable lines, the dying Ceasar cries out in shock. “Et tu, Brute?” Meaning, of course, “You too, Brutus?” The betrayal of Caesar, while perhaps nobly inspired, does not bring rewards for the tormented Brutus. Instead, he watches the system crumble before his eyes as the eloquent Marc Antony masterfully convinces the crowd that the murderers must be held accountable. In the end, the balance of power leads Caesar’s adopted son Octavius to become the new leader. And Brutus? Well, let’s just say he kills himself in the end. So, what was the theory of my paper? Ends don’t always justify the means. In fact, they may be destroyed by them. That is to say,