TOSTEE RESULT: YOU DECIDE
A MURDERER OR INNOCENT?
THE Gable Tostee in the dock at his murder trial has the same look as the man photographed the day after Warriena Wright plunged to her death from his 14th-floor balcony.
Glazed, vacant and sometimes baffled.
Even the clothes he wears each day to the Supreme Court in Brisbane, as a nation watches his fate, are deadpan consistent: Light-coloured button shirt, either white or light blue. No tie. Brown shoes, laced. Brown belt. Blue slacks.
As each witness takes the stand, Tostee watches attentively with a poker-faced stare.
Even when the chilling recording of Ms Wright’s final moments is played to the court, the 30 year old – who has pleaded not guilty to her murder – looks down, briefly touching his brow.
As the New Zealand tourist screams, “No, no, no” 33 times and pleads for him to “please let me go home” in audio recordings, the accused Tinder-date killer is motionless.
“I would, but you’ve been a bad girl,” his voice echoes across the courtroom from the audio recording before he locks the balcony door.
He later left his apartment, bought pizza and called his father to pick him up, telling him he had a “bit of a situation”.
In court, Tostee, heavier than when he entered the national spotlight two years ago, puts on a pair of glasses each time a witness takes the stand so he can see them clearly.
His glances are among the few times he makes eye con- tact as they take a seat to his far right.
Tostee rests the spectacles on the front of his neck like a collar when his lawyer speaks on his behalf.
Occasionally he will shake his head as Crown prosecutor Glen Cash QC argues the case against him. He is rarely bothered by the dozens of journalists or observers in the courtroom.
Law students, social dropouts, members of the legal fraternity come and go over the course of the week but it is only when a large group of school students enter that Tostee seems concerned by who is watching him.
He doesn’t look at the jury often; his eyes fixed forward or studying exhibits tendered to the court on a small screen at his feet.
All eyes are on him, though.
One juror stops looking at a transcript when the audio of Ms Wright’s final moments is played and stares at Tostee, who appears oblivious to the attention.
Tostee takes notes on a large pad of paper that appears to be promotional material provided to him by his lawyer, Nick Dore.
He is left-handed and his writing tight cursive.
Yet for all the paper, Tostee doesn’t take many notes.
During the lunch breaks he stays close to his lawyer.
His father, Gray, carries a large blue Coles bag, presumably filled with lunch for the family who don’t spent much time in cafes near the courthouse.
The family arrive and leave from Mr Dore’s office.
Each morning as he leaves that sanctum and waits for the light to turn green to cross
the road, Tostee chats with his top solicitor. Again, he doesn’t make much eye contact.
One day he is carrying a wad of paper. Another day he is holding a folder, as if to distract the media capturing his every move.
Wherever he goes, Tostee is shadowed by his parents.
At one stage his mother tells him to move away from the media sitting in seats nearby.
Mum seems always to have his back.
At one point, Tostee leaves the courtroom and drops a pen from his hand.
He seems blind to losing it, allowing his mother to swoop it up behind him.
Tostee’s father appears equally doting of his son.
When closed-circuit television of Tostee and Ms Wright meeting for the first time is played, he does not watch it on the monitor.
Instead, Gray Tostee has his eyes fixed on his son, who doesn’t look back.
He is looking forward and down at the monitor at his feet. Glazed, vacant and sometimes baffled.