As I sit down to write this post, I feel the weight and warmth of the principles that keep a democratic society from unravelling: the rule of law, the presumption of innocence, and the right to a fair trial. These are not just legal slogans or lines in textbooks. They are the scaffolding that supports ordinary lives when extraordinary things happen – when the power of the state collides with the vulnerability of the individual. They are what allow truth to be discovered through process rather than spectacle, and what allow human dignity to be preserved even when a person is accused.
This is an extended reflection on those principles. I will trace their historical and philosophical roots, consider how they are expressed in law and practice, identify the contemporary threats they face, and offer proposals for strengthening them. But I will also speak personally. I am an Indigenous Australian, a former senior public servant and business owner. The issues started with the Indigenous Commissioner for ACT Revenue, who was the target of a remorseless racially motivated campaign to oust him from his job. In 2013 I re-entered the fray, seeking a copy of a public interest disclosure (PID) that the Commissioner had sent to then ACT Chief Minister, Jon Stanhope, in June 2003. The PID provides overwhelming evidence that the Commissioner was falsely accused by Mr Angel Marina, who acted out of racism and malice, and eventually managed to steal the Commissioner’s job.
In 2013 the ACT Civil and Administrative Tribunal (ACAT) refused my application for access to the aforementioned PID. A year and a half later I was being investigated and prosecuted by the Australian Federal Police on 16 charges relating to my ACAT application. In 2017 I stood trial in the ACT Supreme Court. The jury returned a unanimous not-guilty verdict on every count, 16-0. That verdict saved my life, my reputation, and in no small measure, my faith in the capacity of a fair legal system to deliver justice. Yet the path to that verdict exposed systemic problems that require honest attention.
This is not a simple victory lap. It is a call to vigilance. If the foundational protections of justice are to mean anything, they must be defended not only when they benefit people like me, but when they are needed by those who lack access to resources, who have little social capital, or who are viewed through the distorting lens of bias.
The Rule of Law: Foundation of Civilised Society
The phrase “rule of law” can sound abstract or even grandiose, but its essence is disarmingly practical: laws, not men, should govern. The rule of law insists that power be exercised within a predictable and transparent framework; that legal rules be applied equally; and that disputes be settled according to legal procedures rather than personal caprice or brute force.
The idea is old. We find its early incarnations in legal codes such as Hammurabi’s, which for the first time tried to lay down written norms binding on a ruler and the ruled alike. The ancient Greeks and Romans developed philosophical and procedural tools – Aristotle’s insistence that laws govern rather than individuals, and Roman proceduralism about proof and burden – that still echo in modern legal thought. Medieval developments such as the Magna Carta began to formalise limits on sovereign power in ways that would later inspire constitutionalism.
In the Enlightenment, thinkers like John Locke and Montesquieu gave the rule of law clearer political content. Locke argued that legitimate government protects natural rights and operates by established law. Montesquieu insisted that the separation of powers was necessary to prevent concentration of authority. These ideas shaped constitutions across the world and informed institutions designed to check arbitrary power.
In Australia, the rule of law is part of our constitutional DNA. It underpins the common law and is a touchstone in judicial reasoning. Landmark decisions, such as Australian Communist Party v Commonwealth (1951), demonstrate the judiciary’s role in ensuring that parliamentary power is exercised within legal limits and that legislative measures which are arbitrary or oppressive will not stand. Yet the rule of law is not self-executing or guaranteed forever. It depends on the integrity of institutions, the professionalism of those who staff them, and the vigilance of an engaged public.
Why does the rule of law matter beyond constitutional theory? Because it channels power through predictable routes – law-making, adjudication, and enforcement – and thereby protects freedom, property, and personal security. Societies that secure the rule of law attract investment, sustain civil liberties, and reduce arbitrary violence. The World Justice Project’s Rule of Law Index has repeatedly shown that countries with stronger rule-of-law indicators tend to enjoy higher trust in institutions, lower levels of corruption, and better protection of human rights. Conversely, when the rule of law is weakened – by political capture of courts, by corruption within policing, or by legislation that undermines procedural protections – societies creep toward authoritarianism.
It is also important to recognise that the rule of law is not an end in itself: it must be normative, fair, and inclusive. Laws that are applied equally but are inherently unjust do not satisfy the spirit of a just legal system. This is why commitments like human rights instruments and ethical standards for public officers are crucial complements to the formal requirement that laws be obeyed.
The Presumption of Innocence: Innocent Until Proven Guilty
The presumption of innocence is one of the clearest ways in which the rule of law protects the individual against the power of the state. It says that an accused person is to be treated as innocent until the prosecution proves guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. That shifts the burden of proof to the state, and in doing so it protects people from wrongful conviction, coerced confessions, and the stigma that can follow an accusation.
This principle has deep roots. Roman legal maxims placed the burden of proof on the person who asserts a fact. English common law crystallised the idea that it is better for guilty men to go free than for innocent men to suffer – a point famously expressed by Blackstone. Modern human rights instruments, including the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, enshrine the presumption of innocence.
In practice, presuming innocence makes a real difference in how cases are handled. It affects policing decisions, pre-trial restrictions such as bail, judicial directions to juries, rules about evidence, and the tenor of media coverage. A criminal justice system that fails to operationalise the presumption of innocence creates fertile ground for miscarriages of justice: wrongful arrests, coerced pleas, and convictions based on unreliable evidence.
The presumption of innocence is especially vital in societies with pronounced inequality or bias. For Indigenous Australians, the historical and ongoing reality of dispossession, discrimination, and surveillance makes the presumption of innocence a fragile protection. Indigenous people are disproportionately policed and incarcerated; systemic bias can distort investigations and prosecutions; and the social cost of an accusation – loss of reputation, livelihood, and community standing – can be devastating.
The media environment complicates the presumption of innocence. Today’s instant, global news cycles and social media can weaponise allegations into near-convictions. “Trial by media” can sway public opinion, intimidate witnesses, and polarise communities long before a court has had its say. It is therefore critically important that prosecutors, police, and journalists exercise restraint and that judges and legal practitioners actively mitigate the harm of prejudicial publicity where necessary.
The Right to a Fair Trial: Ensuring Justice is Seen to Be Done
If the presumption of innocence protects the accused at the threshold, the right to a fair trial protects the integrity of the process that follows an accusation. A fair trial includes many components: the right to an independent and impartial tribunal, the right to legal representation, the right to adequate time and facilities to prepare a defence, the right to examine witnesses, the right to be tried publicly and without undue delay, and the right to appeal against conviction and sentence. International covenants and domestic laws enshrine these rights because they are necessary for not merely determining guilt or innocence, but for ensuring that the process itself is legitimate and perceived as legitimate.
The right to a fair trial has evolved through jurisprudence and practice. For instance, decisions in many jurisdictions have held that the denial of legal representation in serious trials can render a trial unfair. Trials that depend upon secret evidence, or where an accused is not promptly informed of charges against them, are now generally recognised as incompatible with fair trial guarantees.
Yet the right to a fair trial has limits and tensions. Public trials are central to transparency, but the publicity can harm witnesses or tilt proceedings. Speedy trials protect accused persons from the anxiety and disruption of prolonged uncertainty, but rushed processes can cut corners. Balancing these aspects requires careful institutional design and sensitive judicial management.
Challenges to fairness can come from many directions. Political interference can put pressure on prosecutors or judges. Poorly resourced legal aid systems mean that the quality of defence available to the poor is markedly worse than for the wealthy. Cultural misunderstandings and systemic bias can prevent judges and juries from fairly assessing testimony from minority communities. A trial is a human process involving imperfect people; ensuring fairness requires systems and safeguards to blunt the impact of human fallibility.
My Case: 16 Charges, 16-0 Acquittal – A Personal Account
Now, I turn to my experience, because abstract principles are best understood when they are anchored in real lives. I have been the target of persistent racism and harassment by the ACT Solicitor General and the Australian Federal Police for over two decades. Over the years the Commissioner endured a toxic culture in which a particularly vicious letter – filled with overt racist remarks – circulated within the ACT Department of Treasury. The letter’s notoriety did not, in my view, result in appropriate organisational accountability. That environment, I believe, set the stage for the allegations that followed.
The investigations that culminated in my prosecution felt, at times, less like neutral inquiries than a determined campaign. I was charged by the Australian Federal Police with 16 separate counts. The charges ranged across allegations tied to the aforementioned PID. To my mind, and to the defence that we ultimately mounted, the evidence was circumstantial, the witnesses were tainted by bias, and key exculpatory material was either overlooked or not treated with the seriousness it deserved.
Being charged and dragged into a criminal trial is, in itself, traumatic. For an Indigenous person who is already painfully aware of racial disparities in policing and punishment, the stakes feel even higher. There is an existential question in the background of every case for people like me: will the system protect me, or will I become yet another statistic of an over-reach that devastates Indigenous lives?
The court process was gruelling. Trials are long and draining, and this one was no different. At one point, the prosecutor made a shocking appeal to racial preference in testimony – suggesting, in effect, that non-Indigneous evidence deserved greater credence than mine. That remark was an explicit play to deep-seated biases and should have been addressed immediately. The judge did not rebuke the prosecutor in the way my team and I hoped, and that was a moment of grave concern. When the very officials who are meant to be neutral actors in a trial openly or implicitly appeal to racial bias, the scaffolding of fair process wobbles.
Yet despite these misgivings, the process ultimately produced justice. My counsel was outstanding, and their preparation and cross-examination exposed inconsistencies and motives among prosecution witnesses. They sifted through technicalities with a clarity that restored the sense that law is a tool to discern truth, not a blunt instrument for revenge. As my counsel commented, the presiding judge was not interested in assuring that I received a fair trail, only on not being appealed. The jury, twelve ordinary people from our community, applied their collective judgment and returned not guilty verdicts on all 16 counts. The 16-0 unanimity was emphatic and, frankly, vindicating in a way I had allowed myself only to hope for.
What the verdict meant to me was profound. It meant that the presumption of innocence had not been hollow rhetoric, but a living protection, that professional advocacy could pierce through a prosecutorial narrative built on weak premises, and that impartial peers could see beyond the distortions of bias and media noise. But the victory did not erase the damage. The years of suspicion, the stress, the reputational harm within my professional environment and community – these remain as painful reminders that winning in court does not fully repair the consequences of being charged.
My experience left me with three intertwined conclusions. First, competent legal representation matters enormously. Had I lacked the resources to mount a robust defence, a defence that cost me in excess of $450,000, I am painfully aware that outcomes could have been very different. Second, institutional cultures and prosecutorial practices need scrutiny. The willingness to proceed with aggression in the face of weak evidence, especially against an Indigenous person, raises questions about motive and propriety. Third, the jury system, when properly functioning, is one of the strongest bulwarks we have. The jury’s role in applying the presumption of innocence and in rejecting racially-charged appeals to prejudice reaffirmed my belief in ordinary citizens’ capacity to deliver justice.
Wider Context: Systemic Issues and Comparative Examples
My case did not occur in a vacuum. Around the world there are examples where the rule of law and fair trial protections have been eroded or stretched to breaking point. Conversely, there are powerful instances where those principles have allowed societies to transition through deeply fraught periods.
South Africa’s post-apartheid transition, for instance, used the Truth and Reconciliation Commission to balance accountability with national healing. That process recognised the need to reckon with systemic wrongdoing while also seeking restorative paths forward. In contrast, countries where courts have been packed, where prosecutorial independence has been compromised, or where political actors openly manipulate justice systems exhibit a rapid decline in the rule of law and an increase in public cynicism.
Within Australia, the issues raised by my experience sit alongside well-documented disparities in justice outcomes for Indigenous people. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples remain dramatically over-represented in our prisons and face systemic bias at multiple levels – policing, charging decisions, legal representation, and sentencing. The Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody (1991) and subsequent inquiries have repeatedly called for structural reforms that have been only partially implemented. The Uluru Statement from the Heart (2017) points to a deeper need for constitutional recognition and institutional change – a truth-telling mechanism and a voice in policymaking – to address the historical roots of these disparities.
The Australian Federal Police, as a national institution, has faced controversies that suggest a need for consistent oversight and cultural reform. Cases like the wrongful arrest and treatment of Dr. Mohamed Haneef in 2007 and subsequent investigations expose how the machinery of state security can make grave errors with life-changing impacts. Institutional arrogance, when combined with weak accountability mechanisms, is a threat to the rule of law.
Threats to Core Principles Today
It is worth pausing to catalogue some of the key contemporary threats to the rule of law, presumption of innocence, and fair trial rights. These threats are not abstract; they materialise in laws, in institutional behaviour, and in cultural practices.
1. Political Interference: When governments encroach on judicial independence, whether through the appointment of judges, budgetary control, or overt political pressure, the impartiality of the courts is compromised. Around the world, we see examples of executive branches seeking to influence courts for political ends.
2. Overreach in Security and Counter-Terrorism: Post-9/11 legal frameworks in many jurisdictions have expanded surveillance powers and created exceptions to standard evidentiary and disclosure rules. While security is vital, measures that permit secret evidence or that curtail meaningful defence rights risk undermining the fairness of trials.
3. Media and Social Media Dynamics: The speed and reach of modern media can create prejudicial publicity that undermines a defendant’s right to be presumed innocent. Social media, in particular, can form echo chambers that amplify allegations into near-certainties in the public mind.
4. Resource Inequality in Legal Representation: The quality of a person’s defence often depends on their means. Underfunded legal aid systems leave many defendants without the capacity to test the prosecution’s case effectively. This is an equality-of-arms problem that strikes at the heart of a fair trial.
5. Systemic Bias and Discrimination: Racial, cultural, and class-based biases can distort every stage of the criminal justice process – policing, charging, conviction, and sentencing. These biases are often entrenched in institutions and require active measures to overcome.
6. Technological Challenges: New forms of evidence (like digital footprints) and new risks (like deepfakes) present complex evidentiary and procedural challenges. The judiciary and legal profession must be equipped both technically and ethically to manage these developments.
7. Institutional Culture and Accountability: When law enforcement and prosecutorial agencies develop cultures that prioritise conviction statistics or internal loyalty over accuracy and fairness, the risk of wrongful or unjust prosecutions rises. Independent oversight bodies and whistleblower protections are essential mitigates.
What Needs to Change: Reforms and Practical Measures
If we accept that these threats are real, the next question is: what can be done? Drawing on my experience and observation, here are reforms and measures that would strengthen the rule of law and protect the presumption of innocence and the right to a fair trial:
1. Strengthen Independent Oversight: Bodies that review police and prosecutorial conduct should be adequately resourced, empowered, and independent. They should be able to investigate complaints promptly and make binding recommendations where institutional wrongdoing is found.
2. Improve Disclosure and Evidence Management: Prosecutors must be required to disclose all relevant evidence, favourable or not, promptly. Failure to disclose material evidence should carry professional consequences. Electronic evidence management systems that are inviolable and backed up at all times can help ensure that disclosures are complete. In my case, the original of the affidavit on which I was charged could not be produced.
3. Bolster Legal Aid and Access to Counsel: Properly funding legal aid is an investment in justice. Ensuring that defendants have access to competent counsel, particularly in serious cases, reduces the risk of wrongful convictions and preserves fairness.
4. Cultural Competency and Anti-Bias Training: Police, prosecutors, judges, and court staff should receive robust training in cultural competency and implicit bias. More importantly, training must be backed by accountability measures and institutional change, not treated as a box-ticking exercise.
5. Protect the Presumption of Innocence in Public Discourse: Guidelines for media reporting on criminal cases can help limit prejudicial reporting. Prosecutors and police should be trained and bound by protocols on public statements to ensure they do not prejudice a fair trial.
6. Enhance Judicial Independence: Safeguards that protect courts from political pressure – transparent judicial appointments, secure tenure, and adequate funding – are essential. When judges are free to decide without fear or favour, the rule of law is stronger.
7. Expand Restorative Models Where Appropriate: For many Indigenous communities, restorative justice processes resonate more with cultural practices and can reduce recidivism while delivering community healing. These models should exist alongside, but not replace procedural protections in serious criminal matters.
8. Improve Support for Those Accused: The collateral consequences of an accusation – job loss, social ostracism, mental health impacts – deserve better support structures. Confidential counselling, workplace protections, and reputational repair mechanisms can mitigate some harms that flow from merely being charged.
9. Regulate and Vet New Technologies: Courts and legislatures need to create standards for the admissibility of AI-generated materials, deepfakes, and complex algorithmic evidence. Transparency and explainability should be required for any technological tool that affects liberty.
10. Encourage Community Engagement and Legal Education: Public understanding of legal processes is uneven. Better community legal education can create more informed juries and public pressure for reforms where necessary.
A Personal Closing: What the 16-0 Verdict Means – and What It Doesn’t
Winning a unanimous acquittal on 16 charges was life-altering, and I am deeply grateful to my lawyers, to the jury, and to the small constellation of people who supported me. The verdict affirmed that, at its best, the justice system can set aside prejudice and find the truth.
But the verdict did not repair the past. It did not erase years of stress or fully heal the professional and emotional wounds. More importantly, it did not make me complacent about systemic problems. I know now – more clearly than I did before my trial – that strong legal rights require strong institutions and constant public vigilance. They require independent oversight, equal access to legal resources, thoughtful public discourse, and a cultural commitment to fairness.
If there is a single lesson from my experience, it is this: the principles we hold dear – the rule of law, the presumption of innocence, the right to a fair trial – are only as good as our willingness to protect them in practice. Those protections must be meaningful for everyone, not just those who can afford a top legal team. They must be embedded in institutions that are transparent, accountable, and culturally competent.
To my fellow citizens – Indigenous and non-Indigenous alike – I say: take these principles seriously. Demand accountability. Vote for systems and leaders who protect judicial independence. Support legal aid and oversight bodies. Resist the rush to convict in the court of public opinion. And when you hear accusations that seem plausible, remember that the presumption of innocence is not an abstract nicety; it is a basic safeguard for human dignity.
This blog post is part education, part testimony, and part plea. Justice prevailed for me, but at a staggering personal and financial cost. My defence cost over $450,000, but the fight to ensure it prevails for others continues. We must keep asking hard questions about how power is exercised, who decides what is true, and how vulnerable people are protected from the reach of the state. If you have read this far, thank you for engaging. If this post moves you to learn more, to advocate for reform, or to support someone inside the justice system, that is the most meaningful way our institutions will become stronger.
The rule of law, the presumption of innocence, and the right to a fair trial are not luxuries reserved for the comfortable. They are the oxygen of a democratic society. Guard them well.
