Courting Entertainment

If revenge is a dish best served cold, then justice is served with popcorn.
Not usually one to wade into the mire of super court cases, I’ve none the less found myself hooked on a number of recent high profile proceedings.
I’ll be admit that when it comes to trials played out in the global media I usually take one look at the defendant before giving the definitive thumbs up or down.
“Oh, look at the state of him. He’s a goner," or “She’s doomed, it's in her eyes,” I’ll conclude, condemning an innocent defendant as a maniacal monster.
But thanks to a recent holiday abroad this has laissez faire attitude has receded into a crusade for justice.
After dinner I would settle down in my room to the rolling coverage of the Dr. Conrad Murray trial.
What started as a guilty pleasure escalated into compulsive viewing.
Up first on night time cable was the Dr Murray trial.
Charged with the involuntary manslaughter of Michael Jackson, the trial seeks to establish whether Dr Murray acted irresponsibly in applying flawed medical practices and ultimately causing the premature death of the singer.
The actors starring in this drama included bonkers fans, of both Jackson and, bizarrely, Murray, a grief stricken family tweeting from court and witnesses including an actress' bodyguard.
Being disputed was whether Jackson had been supplied with what one website called the “most Propofol received in medical history”, a line that would look good on any movie poster.
But no courtroom yarn would be complete with the obligatory twists and turns and perhaps the most shocking came when a tape was played of a heavily sedated Jackson:  a voice from the grave.
In the middle of this was a man accused of killing the most famous man on the planet.
It was like watching a Lumet movie.
Only the Jackson family had hired an instantly dislikeable, and therefore magnificent, prosecution team and not a boozy Paul Newman. Damn.
Opposite oleaginous lawyers, looking anything but healthy, sat Dr Murray, charged with killing the King of Pop.
That’s pop music, not popping prescription pills.
I make the distinction because, my word, Jackson seemed to plough through his medicine cupboard.
As the histrionics played out the camera caught a glimpse of the Jackson family. Hidden behind sunglasses I could still see the sadness etched across their mouths. For they have and no doubt still are mourning the loss of their son and brother.
Prince, Paris and Blanket will grow up without a father.
Across the other side of the slender room Dr Murray sat in solitude. It was impossible to tell what was running through his head but to me it was: “what have I done?”
And I felt the same sorrow for him, as I did the family praying for his conviction.
All of this, of course, makes for a gripping story but one that should be shared remorsefully and not between television adverts.