This was all a show for the cameras. How could Santino be guilty of a horrible misogynist crime when two women who knew him well—his girlfriend and his sister—would kiss him on his glossy cheekbones because they loved him, felt safe with him, believed in him?

As John Santino headed inside the court building, he slipped his arm around Brooke, hooking her in close to his side. The gesture, his hands on that woman’s body, hit Anita like a thump in the solar plexus.

The trial was being held in the courts just off Phillip Street in the CBD—an elegant stone colonial building with all the period trimmings: red wine carpet, toffee-coloured timber seating like church pews and arched windows high in the walls. For a trial like this one, with intense public interest, it was an awkward choice. The narrow corridors barely allowed for the security screening set-up and the extra bodies milling around.

In Court 3, seats were limited, so Anita was quick to grab a good spot in the public gallery to set up her laptop. There was a bit of sotto voce chat with the other journos, helpful swapping of seats to gain access to power points and a palpable buzz of anticipation.

Following the official thumps at the chamber door, everyone rose for the judge’s entrance. It was only then that Anita saw where Brooke Lester was perched, surrounded by a contingent of Santino family members.

Justice Roland Burke swept through the door to take his position at the bench.

In her years covering trials in Australia and the UK, Anita had generally been impressed by the judges. Sure, there were exceptions—arrogant dickheads, dozy muttering guys who didn’t comprehend much, or other varieties of woeful—but mostly she found judges to be thoughtful people, wearing their huge responsibility with great care and with sympathy for the bewildered civilians in their courtroom. Justice Burke, though, was a hard one to classify. Anita had seen him snort contemptuously at something he considered to be ‘whining, self-indulgent codswallop’. ‘Codswallop’ could be respect for a transgender person or making allowances for disadvantaged people. But he’d also made unexpectedly compassionate judgements. Other judges had told Anita off the record that Burke was regarded as a worry, too unpredictable, but here he was, in his scarlet robes and wig, presiding over a high-octane murder trial.

The first decision Burke made was an absolute fucking cracker.