The opening act of a television series is a delicate dance, a tightrope walk between establishing familiar tropes and hinting at something novel. Audiences tuning into "Matlock" in 1986 likely had a clear set of expectations: a sharp, folksy lawyer, a seemingly impossible case, and the eventual, satisfying triumph of justice. After all, Andy Griffith's very presence brought with it the comforting assurance of moral rectitude. Yet, the pilot episode, "Diary of a Perfect Murder," delivered a final, chilling note that wasn't merely unexpected; it was a defiant subversion, leaving viewers genuinely unable to predict the dark undertone it would cast over the series' nascent identity.
From the outset, "Diary of a Perfect Murder" presented itself as a classic legal whodunit. Ben Matlock, with his signature gray suit and disarming Georgia drawl, takes on the defense of Michael Reston, a man accused of murdering his mistress's husband. The prosecution builds a seemingly airtight case, but Matlock, in his inimitable style, meticulously unravels the threads. He exposes the victim as a blackmailer, painting a picture of desperation and self-defense for his client. Through Matlock’s forensic precision, his keen eye for detail, and his brilliant courtroom theatrics, he systematically dismantles the prosecution’s arguments, leading the audience down a familiar path where the truth, however convoluted, eventually surfaces. We are led to believe, along with the jury, that Reston, while perhaps flawed, is ultimately an innocent man caught in tragic circumstances.
The verdict arrives with the expected relief: "Not guilty." The courtroom erupts, Matlock shares a knowing glance with his delighted client, and the credits seem poised to roll on another case skillfully won, another wrong righted. This is the moment where most legal dramas offer their satisfying resolution, allowing the audience to bask in the glow of justice served. But "Matlock" had one more scene, one final, gut-punching twist designed to dismantle every preconceived notion.
The camera cuts to Michael Reston, alone in his office. The veneer of victimhood, the grateful client, crumbles instantly. A cold, calculating gleam enters his eyes. He then casually produces a diary – one that Matlock himself had been desperately trying to find as evidence. This diary, however, does not belong to the victim, nor does it contain a confessional from another party. Instead, Reston flips through its pages, a faint, malevolent smirk playing on his lips. The entries detail, with chilling precision, his own carefully orchestrated plan to murder the victim. Matlock, the brilliant champion of justice, had been an unwitting pawn, unknowingly securing the acquittal of a remorseless killer. Reston, now a free man thanks to Matlock's genius, simply closes the diary, his eyes lingering on the camera for a moment before he turns and walks away, leaving the audience with an indelible image of triumphant evil.
This revelation was a masterclass in narrative misdirection, precisely because it defied the genre's fundamental promise. Legal dramas thrive on the triumph of truth, the affirmation that the innocent will be exonerated and the guilty brought to justice. "Matlock's" pilot dared to suggest otherwise, injecting a dose of profound moral ambiguity from its very first outing. It left the audience stunned, perhaps even a little disturbed, grappling with the disquieting realization that even the most brilliant legal minds can be manipulated, and that sometimes, the system designed to protect us can be exploited to free the wicked. It wasn't merely a clever plot device; it was a profound statement that established Matlock not as a simple dispenser of justice, but as a complex figure operating in a world where good intentions could inadvertently pave the way for true villains.
The unexpected twist at the end of "Matlock's" pilot episode was more than just a clever ending; it was a bold, almost audacious move that immediately set the series apart. It denied the audience the comfortable resolution they craved, instead presenting them with an unsettling truth that lingered long after the screen faded to black. By revealing Matlock's unwitting failure to catch a killer, the show established a deeper, more morally complex foundation than its folksy charm initially suggested, forever etching that final, chilling moment into the collective memory of its inaugural viewers.
