“Their reason?” I continued, “‘Internal discrepancies.’”
“How convenient,” someone from the audience muttered.
“My point exactly,” I acknowledged.
After a fleeting stillness, another member of the panel raised a question. “What about the confession? What do you make of that?”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” I said, looking right at her. “You see, the language used was…precise, well-structured, and technical. A little too advanced for Vetrov’s educational and professional background.”
Silence.
“It was almost as if he were reciting lines from a script written by someone with a much higher IQ,” I added. “No offense to Vetrov.”
A scattered chuckle rippled across the audience.
The retired judge, a blonde woman in her late fifties, leaned back, watching me in silence. I wasn’t sure if she was impressed or triggered.
“That’s a bold claim, questioning Vetrov’s ability to express himself using some…technical terms,” a panel member chipped in. “Surely you’ve got proof, or something close to it.”
I flipped to a highlighted section of the file on the podium. “It says here that phrases like‘detonation sequencing’and‘structural impact yield’appear multiple times in his confession.” I paused, letting that sink in for a bit. “Pretty big words for an ordinary dock worker, if you ask me.”
The silence was heavy, and I could see that some people were already shifting in their seats.
“Finally,” I said, softer and more confident, “every piece of evidence seems to point in the same direction.”
I waited.
Then continued, “This doesn’t read like an investigation. It reads more like a constructed narrative—that was successfully sold to the general public.”
That was it, the blow that broke the camel’s back.
The room shifted, and the frown on their faces was unmistakable.
One of the panelists glared at me. “Miss Hendy, are you suggesting evidence fabrication?”
I swallowed hard, knowing I had to tread carefully at this point. “I’m suggesting the possibility of systemic manipulation.”
Another sneered. “Based on what, a student review?”
“I understand my position,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But the inconsistencies remain, regardless of who points them out.” A brief pause. “And that’s why I’m making this request.”
“What request?”
I hesitated for a second. “A formal flag on the case.”
The previous speaker rubbed his forehead, exchanging hidden glances with the woman next to him.
“I’m requesting an independent review,” I went on, “access to sealed records, reevaluation of forensic evidence, and interrogation procedures.”
The retired judge raised her brows but said nothing.
“You do realize that this is just a school project, right?” another panelist asked, attempting to blow me off.
“I’m aware,” came my response. “But I’m also aware of the reality of this case.”
Silence.
“That way, we can, at the very least, confirm whether the man serving that sentence is actually guilty of the crime,” I concluded.
