Journey for Justice

A barrage of news stories. Social-media anger. Petitions. Bomb threats. A Homer Simpson mashup.

Almost from the moment that Netflix unleashed Making a Murderer in December, the 10-part documentary was inciting strong reactions across the country and even abroad.

"We knew it was an epic story. It never occurred to us that it would have a response in epic proportion," says Laura Ricciardi, co-creator-executive producer-director, along with Moira Demos, of the disturbing saga about a Wisconsin man, Steven Avery, and his questionable treatment by the criminal justice system.

Avery spent 18 years behind bars for a sexual assault for which he was exonerated in 2003 through DNA evidence. Two years after his release, he was charged with the murder of Teresa Halbach, a 25 year old photographer who visited Avery's auto salvage yard in Manitowoc County the day she disappeared.

After reading of Avery's re-arrest, Ricciardi and Demos, who both attended Columbia University's graduate film program, went to take a closer look.

"We didn't set out to prove anything, but to ask questions," Ricciardi says, "Here is a man stepping back into a system that hasn't changed — will the results be any more reliable?"

Sitting through a preliminary hearing in which the prosecution presented some of its most compelling evidence based on investigative and forensic science, Ricciardi, who also has a law degree, recalls thinking, "There are things that don't add up here."

A decade later — with 500 hours of interviews and 180 hours of trial footage condensed into 10 riveting hours — the evidence still doesn't quite add up.

Did members of the county sheriff's department, which was being sued by Avery for his wrongful imprisonment, plant evidence? Was Avery's learning-disabled nephew, found guilty of participating in the crime, coerced into making a false confession? Is a killer lurking behind Avery's placid, inscrutable demeanor and unwavering claim of innocence?

If the filmmakers have an opinion on Avery's innocence or guilt, they don't let on. "For me to have an opinion, I'd have to know something about what happened that day," says Demos, explaining that their mission was to create a social-justice documentary that would spark dialogue on the dysfunctional aspects of the legal system.

Arriving on the heels of numerous national news stories about police misconduct, the true-crime series has engendered a seemingly widespread sentiment that Avery, who was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life in prison, should at least get an appeal.

"There are so many different responses," says Demos, who objects to accusations that they came to the project with a foregone conclusion, or, as a New Yorker article by Kathryn Schulz suggested, edited the footage in a manner that dodged "inconvenient facts."

The filmmakers say they were as gobsmacked as anyone by revelations that came out in court. With heaps of testimony to choose from, Ricciardi says, "We included what the state indicated was the most significant evidence."

At the same time, they worked with viewer engagement in mind. "How do you get people to eat broccoli?" Demos asks. "Give them an experience that's compelling and absorbing and draws them in in an effective way."

They created an arc for each episode that often centered on seemingly damning evidence, while also demonstrating the ability of the defense to punch holes in its veracity. Halbach's car keys, for example, were suddenly found in plain sight in Avery's trailer home by a member of the sheriff's department — after the space had been searched by other investigators six times.

"The story had so many inherent twists," Demos says. "We didn't have to manipulate or manage them. We just had to decide when to emphasize them." Over the course of a decade, Ricciardi and Demos moved back and forth from New York City to the Wisconsin dairy-farming community, where they observed the locals, including the Avery clan. "We didn't have money," Ricciardi explains. "But we had time."

Their first visit to the auto salvage yard, where charred remains of Halbach's body were found, was unnerving. "That kind of situation can be overwhelming and scary," Ricciardi says.

They developed relationships with civil servants at the courthouse where they would sift through legal documents. They forged alliances with the local media, whose pointed questions during press conferences were sometimes folded into the series. Without a narrator, Demos says, "we needed other voices beyond those in the courtroom to clarify what was being said or implied."

Although the Avery family had rebuffed the local press, the filmmakers lodged a foot — and camera — in their door by stressing that they were there "to listen and not to judge," Demos says.

The documentary renders a sympathetic portrayal of Avery's parents, who fiercely believe in their son's innocence, while lead prosecutor Ken Kratz comes across as arrogant and unappealing. Their attempts to interview Kratz, the producers say, were rebuffed.

The documentarians believed that the density and complexity of the Avery story would require viewers to work their way through the series slowly and carefully. Instead, to their surprise, viewers lapped it up. "It was shocking to us that people were bingeing," Demos says.

At press time, more than a half-million viewers had signed a Change.org petition to set Avery free, an effort likely boosted by doubts raised in Making a Murderer. Clearly, questions remain, but Ricciardi and Demos accomplished what they set out to do.

"We should all be asking more questions," Demos says, "of what's going on in the world."