Review of "Trust on Trial" by G.S. Gerry

Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)

Trust on Trial is a thought-provoking book by G.S. Gerry that explores issues like faith, religion, business, relationships, and more—all under the umbrella concept of TRUST.

This is a unique philosophical and allegorical tale in which the abstract concept of Trust is personified, placed on trial, and judged for its role in human suffering.

Blending courtroom drama with theological discourse and cultural commentary, the narrative is structured around testimonies, exhibits, and dramatic turns that mirror a high-stakes legal case. The reader is not just a passive observer but is cast as a member of the jury, responsible for delivering the final verdict, making this a rather engaging affair.

You can think of Trust as being sort of like the abstract entities in Marvel Comics like Eternity, Death, Lord Chaos, and Master Order—except instead of cosmic power, Trust holds sway over hearts, relationships, and belief systems.

In Trust on Trial, Trust is not a deity or a force of nature, but something more vulnerable: a reflection of human intention as well as its role in God's universe.

Like Eternity (in Marvel) embodies time, Trust embodies the fragile, invisible thread that binds people to one another—and to their belief systems, governments, families, and futures.

So, let's set the stage for this courtroom drama centuries—no, millennia in the making!

Trust (called by the somewhat-cheesy, somewhat fitting name "Earnest Trust") is put on trial by humanity itself—the very people who once depended on it.

Betrayed lovers, defrauded investors, abandoned children, and disillusioned believers all rise up as witnesses. The courtroom is filled with those who feel wronged, their pain sharpened into prosecution. They no longer see Trust as a virtue but as an accomplice to suffering, an enabler of false hope.

This is the People v. Trust—a symbolic trial where humanity demands answers for every heartbreak, broken promise, and failed leap of faith. But as the arguments unfold, the deeper question emerges:

Was Trust truly the traitor? Or did we simply place it in unworthy hands?

It's similar to the argument: Is it the weapon that's to blame or the person wielding it?

Trust is specifically charged with fraud and breach of contract. Now, like much of this book, these charges are both fitting but also a bit silly. Like, you have to wrap your mind around an abstract concept being charged with "fraud and breach of contract" and try to keep a straight face, avoiding laughing or face-palming. It's honestly tempting to laugh during some of this book. As we'll eventually get to, this book gets really goofy, over-the-top, cliche, and cheesy. Oh, gosh, there are parts of this book that get so cringe and cheesy.

There are lines like "no takebacksies" and things like Hannibal Lecter showing up to testify. Like, you can't tell us with a straight face that this isn't a bit ridiculous and silly.

Now, those aren't necessarily bad things. It's great to have comic relief from time to time. It's just that... it can become a bit much and distract from the more serious things in this book. For example, there are people in this book who have had their lives irreparably damaged—they've lost their livelihoods or even loved ones. Yet there's always this strange, abstract distance we felt toward these characters and plot-threads due to the more ridiculous things and the framing of this book. We have to be honest: it was kind of hard for us to take this seriously.

It's a REALLY great sounding concept, but we're not sure if it really hit the way the author intended, especially since it becomes really slanted toward its religious messaging. And we're religious. Even we felt preached to. We're essentially told that trust and faith (in God) are inseparable. And we get a multitude of examples that mostly resonate with things you'll commonly hear in the Christian faith, like how Jesus' death and resurrection prove that God loves his creation and fulfills his word. We also get evidence that the events of the Bible actually happened (like the place of Isaac's binding being real according to archaeology and Josephus' unbiased historical testimony).

So, just know: this is a Christian book that blends fiction and non-fiction elements. And, by the end of it, a lot of the philosophical and ideological debate (which eventually includes things like the 2020 race riots and the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict for some reason), all gets boiled down to Judeo-Christian theology. This is either going to jive with you or it's not.

We loved the overall message, but it seemed really Trojan-horsed and shoehorned into this trial setup. Hey, we hope it reaches people and introduces them to God. For us, as believers, it had us thinking, "Hey... wait a minute..." To be honest, it kind of made us feel bait and switched. Like, we thought we were about to read a John Grisham-styled novel, instead we got a mid-90s Cloud Ten Pictures movie like Judgment. Hey, it didn't quite become Bibleman, but it was getting there.

It wouldn't be such an issue if it didn't become extremely one-sided and heavy-handed by the midpoint. In fact, it was already pretty clear by the introduction of the obviously-evil prosecutor that the anti-Trust (pun intended) people were wrong.

Think of it: how in the blue heck is any reader going to say you can live without trust?
Like, yes... there are people who exist who have trust issues. That's different from having zero trust or believing trust shouldn't exist.

Trust is a fundamental aspect of being human—of human existence. It's almost like arguing against air, food, and water.

Trust is literally the first stage of Erik Erikson’s psychosocial stages of development (trust versus mistrust). To deny it and reject it is to deny and reject being a living, breathing, social human being.
So, it really does seem like a foregone conclusion. It's like waiting for God to win at the end of the Bible. Of course God is going to win at the end of the Bible.

Now, you could argue: yes, you are given the choice as a juror in this case to go to chapter 9 or chapter 10 depending on how you vote, but... most people are either going to choose "Innocent" instinctually (and because the narrative HEAVILY pressures/pushes you to do so), or you're just going to vote "Guilty" to be a contrarian or out of curiosity (or perhaps a completionist like us). The book simply does not give a strong enough argument for why Trust is solely to blame for any of the charges. In other words, the tension that should exist simply doesn't seem to exist, at least not to the extent the author was probably hoping. You need that tension and drama to keep things interesting and entertaining.

The arguments and narrative of this book become like an avalanche—it's incredibly one-sided and unbalanced. At least that's how we saw it. You might see it differently.

Maybe we should talk about the very first moment we realized Trust was more than likely going to be exonerated.

From a narrative perspective...

It's when you learn that Trust's first name is "Earnest" right at the beginning of the trial. Earnest, huh? A very noble-sounding name. That's not a name you give a villain or a wrongdoer. It's like calling the defendant "Good Guy" or "White Knight." It automatically lets the reader know that this guy, at the very worse, is misunderstood.

But then we find out that Trust's defense attorney is named Shield. Another noble-sounding name. To be fair, his first name is Harvey, perhaps evoking Harvey Dent before he was Two-Face from the Batman franchise. But he is known simply as Shield for the rest of the book.

And then we're introduced to the prosecutor, the villain, Curtis Reed.
Hmm... now, that name doesn't quite fit the melodramatic naming convention of the other two, at least not at first glance. However, if you know the Bible, you know that reeds symbolize weakness, fragility, unreliability, and false strength—things that appear supportive but fail when tested.

In Isaiah 36:6, we get: “Look! You are trusting in the staff of this broken reed, Egypt, on which if a man leans, it will go into his hand and pierce it. So is Pharaoh king of Egypt to all who trust in him.”

This is also echoed in 2 Kings 18:21.

Even Jesus himself gets in on the reed-talk, saying Matthew 11:7:
“What did you go out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken by the wind?”

Even from a literary perspective, think of the Reeds (the Reed family) from Jane Eyre. The Reeds are Jane's cruel relatives who raise her after the deaths of her parents. They are essentially the main antagonists of the beginning portion of Jane Eyre, negatively impacting her and inhibiting her character's journey. In fact, think of them like reeds in a body of water like a river: slowing the flow, choking, inhibiting.

So, Curtis Reed does immediately come across as villainous.

Furthermore, the way that he's described really makes that obvious. From his slicked-back hair and blood-red tie to his smug courtroom strut and condescending tone, every detail screams performance over principle. He’s not just prosecuting Trust—he’s relishing it, treating the courtroom like a personal stage where ego, control, and theatrical flair take center spotlight. His custom-tailored navy suit, his choreographed pauses, and even his diction are all carefully engineered to project dominance and manipulation.

In fact, let's look at the character's introduction.

“The attorney for the prosecution, Curtis Reed, struts around the courtroom like a peacock... His navy blue suit is sharp, tailored to perfection. It radiates intimidation and smugness... Reed is a walking ego trip, and the jury eats it up.”

These descriptions scream cocky, pompous, and obnoxious without stating it outright. Add disingenuous to that list of adjectives. Words like “struts,” “smugness,” “walking ego trip,” and “peacock” all point to a character who is brash, arrogant, and theatrically self-important—all hallmarks of a cocky, antagonistic persona.

Reed is less a seeker of justice and more a high-powered predator, expertly baiting the jury with emotional appeals, cheap shots, and symbolic exhibits. Like a televangelist or a used-car salesman turned prosecutor, he thrives on appearances—dripping with charisma, but hollow in sincerity.

In contrast to the quiet, principled demeanor of Harvey Shield, Reed’s villainy isn’t hidden—it’s packaged, polished, and proudly on display.

And before you go thinking that you can't judge a book by its cover and that Curtis Reed might not be such a bad guy, he quickly squashes that thought when he becomes like a heel (in pro wrestling) and repeatedly mocks, threatens, and disparages Trust and Shield.

Curtis Reed is a bad guy through and through, and it's made abundantly clear and obvious to the reader.

You know who he reminded us of? Guy Pearce's prosecutor character from Rules of Engagement. In fact, he could be Guy Pearce in any film in which he played a villain (i.e. Count of Monte Cristo). You just want to punch him in his stuck-up, pompous, long-nosed face. What a snake!

And then the trial happens, and, oh boy, is this a mixed bag—a can of worms!
We already talked about how there are times when it's hard to take this trial seriously. It kind of reminded us of one of those Phoenix Wright trials/cases—like, it's really cartoonish to the point of absurdity at times.

We talked about how Hannibal Lecter shows up at one point, but it's not all so over-the-top.

In fact, one of Reed's first arguments uses (well, after the Garden of Eden/Serpent stuff) is that of Bernie Madoff—the infamous Ponzi schemer whose deception devastated thousands. Reed presents Madoff as the perfect example of what happens when people place their trust in the wrong hands. But he doesn’t stop at blaming Madoff. No, Reed pushes it further—he names Trust as the real accomplice.

He shakes a burlap bag of silver coins, labeling it Exhibit D, and dramatically proclaims that it wasn’t just Madoff who stole from the innocent, but Trust itself that whispered in their ears, convincing them to invest, to believe, to hope. And then—snap—everything vanished.

“Madoff had a partner,” Reed declares, pointing directly at the defendant. “That partner was Earnest Trust.”

And then he actually uses victims of the Ponzi scheme as witnesses testifying against Trust.

Can we briefly go back to that Garden of Eden/Serpent stuff? Could you imagine being in a courtroom and someone just starts using that story in their argument—not in a symbolic manner, but in a dead-serious, this-is-historical-fact-and-actually-happened manner?

Christians reading this might jive with that, but what about the rest of the audience? Like, if this is a work meant to reach out to nonbelievers and evangelize to them, you might not want to start with something that could be perceived as abstract or mythical like the Garden of Eden and the Fall. Just a thought.

But then we get repeated references to Judas and—the one that made us cringe the most—Benedict Arnold. Benedict Arnold gets mentioned a boatload of times in this book. Judas is referred to as the "OG Benedict Arnold" which is, honestly, a bit cringe-inducing.

Gosh, there's some really cheesy stuff in here. But Looney Tunes and pro wrestling are cheesy, and we still love them.

There are also some good lines like:

"Trust didn’t just break himself. He was broken. If goodness has an architect, doesn’t that prove
evil has an author? And his greatest trick? It’s deception. Convincing you he doesn’t even exist
and trying to manipulate you into believing that Trust is the real issue."

We especially love the line that "evil has an author."

There are some things in here where you really have to suspend your disbelief, and that's probably one of the challenging things about this book—the suspension of disbelief gets pushed to the limits.

Not only do you have to buy into an abstract concept like Trust being on trial, and not only do you have to buy into Trust and Faith being synonymous, but then you have to somehow wrap your head around things that happen in this courtroom that probably wouldn't be allowed in a typical American courtroom.

For example, the Bible is admissible as evidence. At first, this really suspended our disbelief, but at least the book provided an explanation later on. When the defense uses it in their testimony, it is challenged and objected to by Prosecutor Reed. Thankfully, the judge (Steel) and the narrative of the book reminds us that the prosecution had earlier referenced the Bible in its own argument and as evidence. So, there's that.

Another example of bizarre courtroom behavior, and one that really stood out to us, is how the judge keeps overruling objections because he "wants to hear" what the witness is saying. Can this happen in real life? Yes. Does this happen in real life? Yes. But should it happen? No.

A judge wanting to hear testimony just for the sake of wanting to hear it is usually not a good enough reason to overrule an objection unless the prosecution or defense can qualify, explain, or substantiate the reason for the testimony.

Otherwise, it's at major risk of being challenged in appeals. In short: evidence and testimony was admitted that shouldn't have been.

This tendency weakens the credibility of the courtroom structure the book tries to maintain. It shifts the tone from a tight legal drama to something more symbolic or theatrical—almost like Law & Order crossed with The Twilight Zone. And while that may be intentional given the allegorical nature of the work, it does force the reader to accept a legal system that operates more like a stage for philosophical duels than a realistic justice process.

Another thing that got to us about this book is how it keeps reminding the reader that what's coming up is big, huge, and important. We think this was because the author was really trying to keep the reader engaged, but that's the narrative's job. So, we get reminders like:

“Tomorrow, the final showdown for the fate of Trust begins. Everything hangs in the balance."

"Everything thus far had been groundwork for what was about to unfold."

“What comes next will test not only the court but every belief you’ve held about Trust itself.”

"This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for."

“This is what it all comes down to—the fate of Trust now lies in your hands.”

“Everything has led to this point, this moment when we must confront the truth.”

“The moment of truth has arrived, and Trust will either stand or fall by what happens next.”

“The time has come to decide if Trust can be salvaged.”

“Everything is about to change—and not just for Trust.”

“We’ve all been waiting for this: the testimony that will either redeem or condemn.”

“From this point forward, nothing will be the same in this courtroom.”

How many times can we be told that this is "the moment of truth, it's all on the line, this is the place, this is the time" before it starts to lose its meaning and effect? If everything is the moment of truth, then nothing is.

In theory, these lines are great at building suspense and tension (despite the aforementioned foregone conclusion), on the other hand... it almost feels like the narrative keeps promising and promising, dangling a carrot in front of you only to get you to the next treadmill/hamster wheel and the next carrot. Does that make sense?

Well, you could argue: that's how cliffhangers work. And you'd be right, to an extent.

All in all, what this book tries to do is really ambitious and admirable. We're not quite sure if it hit the way that the author intended it to hit, especially with its more absurdist and one-sided aspects, but it was a valiant and well-meaning attempt.

Check it out on Amazon!