In South Australia, a person placed on remand has not been convicted of an offence.

That sounds obvious enough. But lately, it feels like a distinction we’re becoming increasingly comfortable forgetting.

People on remand are not serving a sentence. They are being held in custody while their matter moves through the court system.

Some will eventually be found guilty. Some won’t. Some will receive non-custodial outcomes entirely. Yet all of them are subject to one of the most serious powers the state can exercise against a person: the deprivation of liberty.

That principle matters because the presumption of innocence is supposed to mean something.

But recent scrutiny surrounding the Adelaide Remand Centre raises an uncomfortable question: are we still treating remand as a temporary legal measure, or has it quietly started functioning as punishment before trial?

The question has become harder to ignore following recent reports about the Adelaide Remand Centre’s private operation.

A recent report commissioned by the Public Service Association, and prepared by the McKell Institute, described the facility’s privatisation as a ‘failure’, pointing to allegations of chronic understaffing, violence, drug incidents, extended lockdowns, operational instability, and deteriorating conditions inside the centre.

The State Government nevertheless moved to extend Serco’s contract for another five years, arguing the arrangement was difficult to unwind without significant financial consequences.

Predictably, the political debate has largely focused on privatisation itself. Should prisons be privately run? Has outsourcing failed? Who is responsible?

Those are important questions, but there’s another issue sitting underneath all this that deserves far more attention: what exactly are we comfortable subjecting legally non-convicted people to?

Remand exists for a reason. Courts can, and should, refuse bail where there are legitimate concerns about public safety, witness interference, reoffending, or risks to the administration of justice. In many cases, remand is entirely appropriate.

But it was never intended to operate as a sentence in advance.

That distinction becomes critically important when conditions inside remand facilities begin reflecting instability rather than temporary containment.

Instability inside a remand environment doesn’t just affect daily operations. It affects mental health. It affects access to lawyers and support services. It affects rehabilitation prospects, courts preparation, family relationships, employment, housing, and ultimately, confidence in the justice system itself.

As lawyers, we often see the side of remand the public rarely does.

We see clients deteriorate psychologically while waiting for their matter to progress through an already stretched court system. We see people lose housing, employment, and family stability before their allegations have even been tested.

We see the cumulative effect prolonged uncertainty and incarceration can have on someone who remains legally innocent until proven otherwise.

Increasingly, we also see a justice system operating under enormous strain.

Court delays continue to grow. Criminal matters are becoming more complex. Correctional systems are under pressure. Support services are being stretched. Remand populations rise, facilities become strained, and instability compounds itself.

None of this means public safety should become secondary. Victims of crime deserve protection, support, and a justice system capable of responding effectively to harm. Community safety must remain central to any functioning criminal justice system

But fairness and public safety are not mutually exclusive concepts.

A justice system should be capable of protecting the community while still maintaining a meaningful distinction between a person who has been convicted and a person who has merely been charged.

That distinction is fundamental. Once conditions on remand begin to feel indistinguishable from punishment, the presumption of innocence starts becoming less of a legal principle and more of a legal slogan.

And that should concern everyone, regardless of where they sit politically.

It’s easy, particularly during a period of heightened concern about crime, to adopt the view that harsh conditions are justified simply because someone has been accused of wrongdoing.

But the strength of a justice system is not measured by how it treats the popular or sympathetic. It’s measured by whether fairness, proportionality, and due process continue to apply when it’s inconvenient to uphold them.

The Adelaide Remand Centre debate is bigger than a contract dispute between the government and a private operator. It goes directly to how South Australia understands punishment, justice, and the limits of state power.

If remand is truly not intended to be punitive, then the conditions inside remand facilities should reflect that principle in practice. Not merely in legal theory.

If punishment effectively begins before conviction, we should at least be honest enough to admit the presumption of innocence is no longer carrying the weight we claim it does.