Published: 11:29 PM, 23 September 2026
The Empty Chair in the Courtroom
Anika Raisa
A courtroom is built around a simple idea: justice should be done in the presence of the person whose liberty, reputation, or life may be at stake. But what happens when that person is not there?
The courtroom does not necessarily close. In Bangladesh, it may continue without the accused. This is known as a trial in absentia, and it raises a difficult question that goes far beyond legal procedure: Can justice truly be complete when one of the people at the centre of the case is missing?
Under section 339B of the Code of Criminal Procedure, 1898, a person who has absconded or is concealing himself and cannot reasonably be brought before the court may, after the required legal steps, be tried in his absence. The law is understandable. An accused should not be able to defeat justice simply by disappearing. But there is another side to the story.
Criminal justice is not only about bringing cases to an end. It is also about making sure that the process is fair. Article 35(3) of our Constitution promises every person accused of a criminal offence a speedy and public trial before an independent and impartial court. Speed matters. So does fairness. The danger begins when “absence” becomes a shortcut.
A person may deliberately flee to avoid trial. That is one situation. But the law must be equally careful when there is uncertainty about whether the person actually received meaningful notice, understood the proceedings, or had a genuine opportunity to defend himself.
Our courts have already shown why this matters. The High Court Division has treated the statutory notice requirements for trial in absentia as essential, and has set aside proceedings where those requirements were not properly followed. The message is important: procedure is not empty paperwork when the freedom of an accused is at stake.
This becomes even more relevant in an age when major criminal proceedings can unfold before the eyes of the public. In April 2026, for instance, a Dhaka court sentenced an absconding accused to 10 years in prison in an arms case in his absence. Similar proceedings in major national cases have also kept the issue in public discussion.
The temptation, especially in high-profile cases, is to think that an absent accused has somehow surrendered all his rights. But justice cannot operate on temptation.
The better approach is to see trial in absentia not as a punishment for being absent, but as an exceptional mechanism for preventing an accused from using disappearance as a shield. The court must still ask the fundamental questions: Was the accused properly notified? Was reasonable effort made to secure his appearance? Was the legal procedure strictly followed? Was the defence given a meaningful opportunity to challenge the prosecution’s case?
And perhaps we need to ask an even bigger question: What happens after the judgment?
A verdict is not the end of justice merely because the judge has pronounced it. Justice should also be capable of surviving scrutiny. An absent accused may remain outside the courtroom, but the evidence, the reasoning and the procedure must remain strong enough to withstand appeal and public examination.
There is nothing wrong with a legal system saying, “You cannot run forever and expect the court to wait forever.” But there is something deeply dangerous if the system begins to say, “Because you are absent, fairness no longer matters.” The first statement protects justice. The second weakens it.
Perhaps the real challenge for Bangladesh is not choosing between speed and fairness. It is learning how to protect both.
A criminal court should never become a place where justice waits helplessly for a missing person. But neither should it become a place where an empty chair is treated as proof of guilt. The chair may be empty. The courtroom must not be.
Anika Raisa studies Law in
Bangladesh University of
Professionals (BUP), Mirpur
Cantonment, Dhaka.
