In a courtroom, evidence is tested. In a documentary, it’s arranged. That difference might seem small, but it isn’t, writes Rebecca Ward, MBA.
As streaming platforms continue to churn out capacious “true crime” docuseries, many are left thinking they’ve seen justice in action. What they’ve actually seen is theatre. And that’s a problem, not just for a layperson’s comprehension of the law but also for the stars that these series claim to protect or condemn.
The rules exist for a reason
In court, not all information is treated equally. Some statements, no matter how compelling, simply aren’t admissible. “It looked like blood” is not the same as a confirmed DNA match. “I saw Bob at the scene” doesn’t carry the weight of time-stamped CCTV footage. Courts apply rules to filter truth from noise, a process that recognises the fallibility of memory, bias, and emotion.
But in documentaries, all of it makes the final cut. There are no rules. Character testimony, speculation, gut feelings, copious witnesses; it’s all treated as fair game. A police officer might say, “I always had a bad feeling about her,” and that becomes evidence in the viewer’s mind. But in a courtroom, that’s hearsay. That’s prejudice. That’s inadmissible. The point of rules is not pedantry; it is protection. They exist to ensure that justice is something more than conviction by montage.
The audience doesn’t know what they don’t know
Here’s the issue: the average viewer doesn’t know the rules of evidence. They don’t know that some testimony wouldn’t survive cross-examination. They don’t realise how carefully actual courts weigh probative value against prejudice. So when a documentary builds a story, with music, close-ups, slow-motion flashbacks, the viewer accepts it as truth. Or worse, as justice.
This is especially concerning when documentaries frame themselves as post-conviction correctives. “Let’s look again,” they say. “Let’s hear from the people who really knew her.” But only some people are chosen. Some facts are emphasised, others omitted. And once the narrative starts building, slow, steady, emotionally charged, there’s a natural human tendency to want resolution. The viewer thinks: “Well, that explains it.” But does it? The illusion of completeness is powerful, but it is an illusion nonetheless.
Storytelling is not scrutiny
Courtrooms are slow and messy. Trials unfold over days or weeks, governed by rules most people never see. In contrast, documentaries are clean, polished, and emotionally curated. Even when they claim to be neutral, they rarely are.
Even the backgrounds are doing work. The sympathetic subject is filmed in soft light, curled up in a leather chair, bare feet in socks, a throw pillow clutched to the chest. The antagonist, or who the edit suggests is the antagonist, might sit taller, sharper angles, a stark room, maybe a jagged sculpture in the background. These choices don’t scream bias. They whisper it. Most viewers won’t notice, but their nervous systems will. The story isn’t just being told. It’s being staged.
This isn’t a new problem. Media have always shaped perception. But what’s changed is the structure. Many docuseries now mimic legal processes. They’re divided into parts: opening argument, character evidence, expert testimony, and verdict. They use legal language, include dramatic courtroom footage, and feature psychologists or lawyers offering post hoc commentary.
The result? It feels like a trial. It mimics the experience of weighing evidence. But the safeguards, the cross-examinations, the objections, the exclusion of prejudicial material, aren’t there. What remains is persuasion without accountability. It is advocacy masquerading as adjudication.
Perjury without consequence
There is no perjury in a documentary. You can say you buried the body. You can say he confessed. You can say you just knew. No one stops the tape. No one cross-examines. In court, those claims would trigger legal consequences, be sworn evidence, be tested under pressure, and be bound by rules. But on screen, falsehoods are just part of the edit. And if you’re the defendant? You can refuse to testify at trial, be found not guilty, and then say whatever you like in the Netflix version. There’s no oath, no transcript, no rebuttal, only curated clips and a compelling arc. And if it’s wrong? Well, that’s just unfortunate.
At some point, the curated version becomes the (en masse) accepted version. TikTok theories, Reddit threads, and Instagram posts echo the edit, not the evidence. Suddenly, the public isn’t just consuming the story; they’re defending it. Challenge the consensus and you’re met with certainty: “I know what happened.” Ask how, and it’s rarely from court transcripts or autopsy reports; more often, it’s from someone who heard from someone, or watched something that felt definitive. Psychologists have long warned about the illusory truth effect, the phenomenon where repetition, not accuracy, makes information feel true (Hasher, Goldstein, & Toppino, 1977). It doesn’t have to be factual. It just has to be familiar. And when millions start repeating the same reframed version of events, the truth becomes harder, not easier, to find.
Justice is not a crescendo
Most documentaries are designed to conclude. The structure builds like a symphony, with slow beginnings, rising tension, and a climactic resolution. But justice doesn’t work that way. In fact, one of the safeguards of the legal system is that not everything does resolve. Jurors may remain uncertain. Judges sometimes rule on points of law alone. That’s uncomfortable. But it’s real.
In contrast, a six-part docuseries can wrap a decade-long investigation into one powerful montage. The story ends. The music fades. The viewer exhales, satisfied, or perhaps outraged. Either way, the message lands: This is what happened. But storytelling resolution isn’t legal resolution. And when viewers confuse one for the other, it erodes public understanding of what courts actually do. Closure is not the same as justice, and the two should never be conflated.
The danger of post-trial persuasion
This blurring of fact and feeling matters, especially when post-conviction documentaries attempt to sway public opinion. In some cases, this can be positive. Wrongful convictions should be challenged. But when entertainment becomes the main vehicle for that challenge, we lose rigour. We accept new “evidence” without knowing whether it’s been tested, or whether it ever could be.
And what of the so-called expert witnesses? In court, expertise is qualified, scrutinised, and cross-examined. In a docuseries, it’s often measured by book sales, social media reach, or stage presence. That may work for production value, but not for legal credibility. The courtroom is not a stage, and credibility is not conferred by charisma.
Conclusion: The court of public opinion has no rules
There’s a reason trials don’t happen on Instagram. The rules of evidence weren’t designed to bore or frustrate; they were designed to protect. They protect the accused, the accuser, the jurors, and the public. They insist that we slow down, examine carefully, and resist the emotional rush to judgment. Documentaries don’t have to do that. They only have to keep us watching. That is their right. But it is our responsibility, as lawyers, as citizens, to remember that editing is not justice, and entertainment is not evidence.
Rebecca Ward is an MBA-qualified management consultant with a focus on mental health. She is the managing director of Barrister’s Health, which supports the legal profession through management consulting and psychotherapy. Barristers’ Health was founded in memory of her brother, Steven Ward, LLB.
