Before the jury was brought in for the start of the trial proper, a ruling on evidence needed to be made. The Crown wanted the jury to be made aware of Santino’s prior assault conviction and to hear testimony from two previous girlfriends who had gone to police, claiming he’d physically abused and threatened them. One of those young women had taken out an apprehended violence order, but neither woman had wanted to proceed with assault charges at the time. The Crown argued this showed Santino’s tendency to become explosively angry and violent when his wishes were thwarted. For the defence, Woodburn argued the incidents bore no relation to the Kendra Bartlett case. The assault conviction was for bashing a male business associate with a pool cue. The allegations by the two previous girlfriends involved slapping, punching, objects being thrown and threats of stabbing. In none of the previous scenarios had Santino threatened to throw a woman off an overpass. According to Woodburn, threatening to kill women by other methods—for example, stabbing—was not sufficiently alike to count as ‘similar fact’ evidence.

Woodburn had barely laid out this dubious argument when Burke made his ruling: the assault charge, the history of violence, none of it would be admissible in this trial. Journalists could not report any of it. The jury would hear none of it.

‘I don’t want a string of disgruntled ex-girlfriends parading through my courtroom,’ the judge said. ‘Let’s just look at the facts of the case in front of us.’

Anita saw the Crown’s barrister, Irene Pileris, slump slightly with the unwelcome surprise of the ruling. Even Woodburn looked startled for a moment, then quickly converted that expression into a knowing smile.

Pileris regrouped quickly, locking her spine back into its usual upright posture and calmly rearranging her notes.

Anita liked Irene Pileris. She was in her early fifties, smart, tiny, birdy, sinewy from cycling astonishing distances across the city. Her red bicycle helmet was tucked under the bar table, ready to be swapped with her barrister’s wig for the cycle home. Irene was methodical and unflustered rather than a showy court performer, but there was something deeply plausible about her that tended to convince jurors.

The jury filed in—six men and six women, ages ranging from mid-twenties to late sixties. All twelve looked slightly nervous, as if determined to do this properly but not sure what that involved. As the judge described their role in the weeks ahead, the jurors shifted position in their chairs. Should they cross their legs? Sit up to attention? Slouch in a more casual fashion? They moved their facial muscles awkwardly too, like people uncomfortable about being photographed. They were all self-conscious, trying to adopt the look serious jurors were supposed to have—the way Anita had seen fresh batches of jurors do in pretty much every criminal trial.