Viral Justice

Astrea Larva had just been brought in for questioning after her friend was found dead not long after a small argument between the two. Astrea swore she could never, but the police believed that the motive for killing was intent enough after their argument. Astrea could not believe she would have to spend the night in a jail cell, but the police did as such.

Astrea sat on the cold bench, the minutes ticking away toward her ten-minute window. The walls of the cell felt like they were closing in, and a small digital screen on the door showed a number that kept climbing: 8,400,210. It was the viewer count for her upcoming trial. She kept visualizing the petrol station, the flickering neon lights of the pump, and the exact time she tapped her card. If she could just get the log from her car’s tracking system, the viewers would see she was miles away when it happened. But the police had confiscated her phone, and she was trapped in a room with nothing but her own thoughts.

She wondered if the 10 million viewers already had their minds made up before she even spoke a word. She wondered if her daughter was one of them, watching the screen from their living room, waiting to see if her mother would disappear for the next two decades. She was the next case, she desperately waited, hoping someone would come running holding the tracking data, but nobody did.

The cell door hissed open. Two guards led her into a room that was mostly empty, except for a massive array of cameras and a glowing holographic podium. "Ten minutes, Astrea," a voice boomed over the intercom. "The world is watching. Convince them."

Astrea stood before the lens, her throat dry and her hands shaking. She began to explain her case, her being at work from 6 in the morning until 7 at night and then heading to the petrol station to refill before finally heading home to her husband and daughter. She spoke about the graduation, trying to make the viewers see her as a mother, not a murderer.

During cross-examination, however, the prosecutor appeared as a floating head on a screen beside her. He asked which petrol station she had visited. The issue here was that she went to the petrol station which has around 10 located in her city, one of which was close to the scene of the crime. Astrea began to sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stated that she had the car tracking data if she was just allowed a bit more time. She looked at the timer on the wall: 2 minutes left.

"The data isn't here, Astrea," the prosecutor sneered, his voice echoing for the millions of viewers. "Without proof, you're just another person with a grudge and a missing hour."

The viewers' live comments began to scroll across the floor in glowing blue text: She’s lying. Look at her hands shake. Guilty. The court were not lenient, but as the voting procedure was about to take place and the timer hit zero, the heavy doors at the back of the room burst open. Her husband ran in, breathless and dishevelled, holding a stack of car tracking details. Astrea grabbed the documents, waving them at the primary camera, and asked if she could please share them before the viewers voted.

"Time is up," the judge said, his face cold. "The poll is live."

Astrea watched the screen in terror. The bar moved back and forth, Blue for Innocent, Red for Guilty. It surged and dipped as 10 million people clicked their screens. When the timer finally stopped, it was a perfect 50/50 split. A dead heat.

The silence in the room was heavy. The judge looked at the data in the husband's hand, then back at the screen. He decided that he would be the final determiner of this case. He stood up, walked down from his bench, and took the papers. He scanned the GPS coordinates and the timestamps of the petrol pump.

"The tracking matches," the judge muttered, his voice finally softening. "She was three miles away at the time of the stabbing."

He looked into the camera, addressing the millions of disappointed viewers who had voted for blood. "I determine Astrea Larva not guilty."

Astrea collapsed to her knees, the air finally returning to her lungs. The cameras cut to black, the livestream ended, and the millions of strangers moved on to the next video. She was free, but as she hugged her husband, she knew she would never forget how close she came to being deleted from her daughter's life by a thumb-up or a thumb-down.