“Will the foreman of the jury please stand? Has the jury reached a verdict?”

Silence descends, crushing me with its weight.

Innocent until proven guilty — that’s what we’re taught. Trust the system and justice will prevail.

Twelve good, honest men and women sit to the side of the courtroom. Twelve blind monkeys sitting in judgment.

It’s not their fault; they can only judge the facts placed in front of them — but if those facts have been distorted or misrepresented, what then? What if the deck is stacked against me from the start?

I stare at my hands — hands accused of such vile acts. I’m many things, I’ve made mistakes it’s true, but a killer? No.

I feel her family’s eyes like fire on the back of my neck, hear their muffled sobs.

Presumption of innocence? A nice idea on paper — or a subject for philosophers to debate… but in this courtroom? After six months with my face alongside hers on front pages nationwide, and hour-upon-hour of rolling news coverage from outside the court?

And so, the body count keeps rising — that poor girl, her whole life in front of her; her parents, their lives ended that night too; now justice lies on the floor bloodied and battered, ready to take its last breath.

And me? I sit here, a ghost-in-waiting. My faith in the system died too somewhere along the way.

The well-dressed, grey-haired foreman of the jury stands.

“Yes your honour, it has.”