In the courtroom, justice often tangles itself in the threads of a defendant’s so-called “good character.” Phrases like “a great father,” “a model citizen,” or “a trusted colleague” are held as shields, deflecting attention from the harm inflicted. For survivors, these words aren’t just disheartening—they’re devastating. To hear the person who shattered their sense of safety praised as virtuous is an act of re-traumatisation. It’s a reminder that the system isn’t built with them in mind, that their pain is secondary to the narrative of the accused.
The Queensland Sentencing Advisory Council’s report on sexual assault trials challenges this long-standing tradition. Evidence of an accused rapist’s “good character,” the report says, should be limited—restricted to moments when it directly informs the court about their capacity for rehabilitation or likelihood to re-offend. No longer should it be casually invoked, filling the courtroom with irrelevant virtues that hold no bearing on the crime. Justice should not hinge on someone’s past deeds, especially when weighed against the life-altering impact of their actions.
The numbers are stark. In over 90% of sexual assault cases sentenced in Queensland’s District Court last year, “good character” evidence was presented. Ninety percent. In these moments, survivors had to sit through glowing testimonials about the very person who caused them harm. What message does this send? That being a good father, a trusted friend, or a loyal employee somehow balance out an act of violence? That their assault is secondary to the defendant’s history of niceness?
This practice isn’t just cruel; it’s outdated. The QSAC report acknowledges the deep frustration victims feel when courts allow these statements to take centre stage. It calls for a shift in focus—away from narratives that soften the crime and toward the severity of the offence and its impact on survivors. The courtroom should be a place where their voices are amplified, not drowned out by a chorus of unrelated praise for the perpetrator.
But the recommendations don’t stop there. The report also advocates for harsher sentences in cases involving the rape or sexual assault of children, classifying these as aggravating factors. For too long, the system has failed to adequately reflect the seriousness of these crimes. By explicitly recognising the additional harm caused in these cases, the council hopes to bring sentencing practices in line with public expectations.
This isn’t just about harsher punishments; it’s about fairness. Justice isn’t served when the scales tip in favour of the perpetrator’s narrative. Survivors deserve to see their pain acknowledged, not just as a footnote, but as the heart of the matter. Their experience, their harm, their survival, these should be the guiding forces behind every sentence handed down.
Yet, the problem runs deeper than courtrooms. Sexual assault is still grossly underreported, misunderstood, and shrouded in silence. The QSAC report reminds us of this, noting how few cases even make it to trial. Of those that do, fewer still result in conviction. This isn’t a failure of individuals; it’s a systemic issue, rooted in outdated attitudes toward sexual violence and a lack of survivor-centred practices.
For survivors, the legal process often feels like another assault—a gauntlet of disbelief, dismissal, and minimisation. The inclusion of “good character” evidence only exacerbates this. It reinforces the idea that their trauma is less significant than the perpetrator’s reputation. It makes them question why they came forward in the first place.
But change is possible. The QSAC report, with its 28 recommendations, offers a blueprint for a more compassionate, equitable system. It’s a system where sentencing reflects the gravity of the crime, where survivors are heard and respected, and where justice isn’t clouded by irrelevant narratives. It’s a step toward accountability—not just for perpetrators, but for a legal system that has long failed those it claims to protect.
At its core, this issue isn’t just about sentencing laws or courtroom procedures. It’s about what we value as a society. Do we value the comfort of perpetrators or the courage of survivors? Do we prioritise reputations, or do we fight for justice? These aren’t abstract questions—they’re the crux of every decision made in these cases.
To limit “good character” evidence is to make a statement: that past virtues don’t erase present violence, and that no amount of praise can undo the harm caused. It’s a declaration that justice, finally, belongs to those who have suffered, not those who seek to excuse their actions.
And so, the courtroom must evolve. It must become a space where survivors feel seen, heard, and believed—a space where justice isn’t just a word but a lived reality. Only then can we begin to undo the harm inflicted, not just by perpetrators, but by a system that has too often failed to take a stand.
