This week we had the guilty verdict against the bizarre creature, the narcissist Elliot Turner, for the murder of Emily Longley in Britain.
And there was more trouble for Shane Jones, who may have been seriously wronged by Internal Affairs. But what moved me most was the indication from the Indonesians that Schapelle Corby may be near the end of her time in that notorious Bali prison.
The Indonesia President reduced her sentence by five years and that means that with her accumulated remissions for good behaviour she could be out in 2015. Parole may mean she could come home in a matter of months.
Her long-suffering, broken-hearted mum can hardly contain her excitement. It's been a long, cruel time since Schapelle was arrested in 2004.
I've never believed Schapelle Corby was a drug smuggler. Something was deeply wrong with the whole thing. For a start, the alleged crime didn't make sense.
Why would anyone with half a brain smuggle dope into Bali? Why would you bother? And Schapelle had no form whatsoever. Having a forgotten joint down the bottom of a handbag is one thing but having 4kg of weed stuffed in a bodyboard bag was quite another.
She owned up so quickly and naively when she was asked who's bag it was. "It's mine," she said cheerily before Customs opened it. In court, the Customs officer claimed she asked him not to open the unlocked compartment where the dope was found in double-strength vacuum-packed bags.
There is no video of that encounter. Nothing.
The likeliest explanation for the dope being in Corby's bag is that it was put there by a crooked baggage handler in Brisbane and should have been off-loaded by a crooked baggage handler in Sydney. How would you ever prove that?
I went across to the Corby home where Corby grew up, in one of the humbler suburbs, and interviewed her mother. In the Queensland manner, the living quarters were upstairs. Downstairs were the snakes and the cluttered garage, a hoarder's paradise.
In the garage was the man I always believed to be Corby's dad. But this was 2004. I read that Mum had left Michael Corby in the late 70s, when Schapelle was very young. But I'm sure it was Michael Corby I met that day. Either way, whoever he was, he seemed quite detached from the family life above.
He was worn down by everything going on. It was just after midday on a Sunday, I think, and he flicked the top off a beer. He seemed a sad, ineffective, trampled-on person. He was friendly and kind enough. Her mother impressed me tremendously.
I really liked Rosleigh. She was terribly careworn and worried. I felt that Schapelle, gentle, pretty Schapelle, was her darling. Rosleigh was real.
I felt Rosleigh would have done her best for the kids over the years. Now she was a mum with a kid in trouble, thousands of miles away, facing a long sentence - if not a lifetime - in a squalid prison.
I remember the smallest things from that interview.
Rosleigh told me she went up to Bali as often as she could. She took Jif, so Schapelle could clean the lavatories. They were filthy. No one else bothered or had a mum who could bring Jif.
And Schapelle was taunted with tawdry insults from the Bali bomber, Amrosi, who insulted her with lewd remarks shouted over the prison wall from the men's section.
They executed him in 2008, which put an end to those indignities. But it was a sad day that I spent at the Corby home in Brisbane.
I met two of Schapelle's friends in the backyard and we talked on the lawn. They were simple, pleasant girls.
One was a Kiwi, I remember. They were straight. They were nice. They were sad for their friend. I imagine they married nice fellows and have families of their own by now.
None of it ever stacked up.
There was that bizarre character, Ron Bakir, with the cellphone shop in Surfers who purported to speak for the family. And for a while he did.
Finally, the Corbys banished him. There was her hopeless, lazy defence lawyer, the woman who spent so much time partying and so little on the defence.
She was badly served all round, poor Schapelle.
I hope she gets to come home soon.
