The ones that got away

What about the gang members not convicted of the murder of Stephen Lawrence?

Everyone knows who killed Stephen Lawrence. It was a gang of vile thugs, two of whom were convicted of murder yesterday, on the basis of forensic evidence. Everyone thinks they know who the other thugs were in what the criminal law rightly classes as a "joint enterprise". Many even know them by name and would recognise their photographs. It surely can only be a matter of time before the other ones are prosecuted and convicted.

But what do we actually know? As it stands there appears to be no forensic evidence linking any of the other individuals to the horrific crime of Stephen Lawrence's murder. There is also no eye witness evidence which can be put before a court. As the Court of Appeal pointed out regarding the original prosecution when quashing the acquittal of Gary Dobson so that he could again stand trial:

Following their arrests, Knight and Neil Acourt were charged with the murder of Stephen Lawrence, after each of them was identified on identification parades by Duwayne Brooks as part of the attacking group of white youths. However the reliability of these identifications was called into serious question. On any view Brooks had found himself in a frightening situation, with only a brief opportunity for making a correct identification at night, under artificial light, in a desperately fast-moving incident.

Moreover, after he had identified Knight, he himself confirmed to an independent police officer that he had not actually seen the faces of any of the attacking group, but had been given a description of them before he took part in the parades. Accordingly, the prosecution of Knight and Neil Acourt was discontinued.

As to Dobson, he was never identified by anyone. [...]

The evidence of Brooks was crucial to the success of the prosecution, but as we have indicated, it was flawed. The question whether his evidence should be placed before the jury was examined in detail at a voir dire. Brooks gave evidence on three days. After hearing argument, Curtis J concluded that his evidence of identification of any of those involved in the attack on Stephen Lawrence was inadmissible. The judgment was impeccable, the reasoning clear, and the conclusion unavoidable.

And so we have a gap. On one hand, there are three alleged murderers who many sensible and informed people believe with complete certainty were part of the gang which attacked Lawrence. On the other hand, there seems -- at least currently -- to be no available evidence to warrant any prosecution, let alone convictions beyond reasonable doubt.

This is the sort of situation which usually cannot hold. If the matter cannot be tried in a court of law, then it seems it will be tried in the so-called court of popular opinion. But the problem with those who "everybody knows" are guilty is that they sometimes are not, at least not of the crime being alleged. Many miscarriages of justice and media sensations have been on the misconceived basis that they "must" be guilty. Examples do not even have to be listed; we all know them.

Unless there is new evidence -- possibly either in forensic form or a confession by one of the two now convicted murderers -- then the dreadful situation will persist of there not being any further prosecution of the others widely suspected of killing Lawrence. No tabloid campaign or new judicial inquiry can change this stark fact.

Had the police conducted a competent initial murder inquiry in the days after Lawrence's murder, there would perhaps be other evidence. But for whatever bad reason the police did not do so. Such helpful evidence cannot now be contrived, and there cannot be any prosecution without evidence. Mere certainty, however well-grounded and widespread, is not enough. The Crown has to prove guilt beyond reasonable doubt, and popular opinion is not admissible in court.

So what should happen to those suspected of murder, but still at large? Should there be no adverse comments? No negative publicity? Should everyone just hold their tongue? Well, without the prospect of proceedings, there is no "due process" to be respected, as there is no determination of guilt in the offing. In that way, there is no legalistic objection to popular opprobrium. It is not sub judice.

However, one day there could be new evidence. There may be a further advance in forensic science which would affect this case. Or there could be a confession implicating another. In those circumstances, there would need to be "due process" with the innocence being presumed until guilt is proved. But would that now be really possible? There is no doubt that the defence lawyers of those prosecuted would contend a fair trial would not now be possible; but, as the Court of Appeal showed when quashing Dobson's acquittal, the courts can be robust in saying that trials should go ahead even when there has been bad publicity. But this robustness is not inevitable.

It may be important that we can join the clamour of condemning those who look as if they have evaded justice. Unfortunately, that same clamour can also be exploited to help the culprit escape justice. Accordingly, even when not legally required for a current legal case, the presumption of innocence until proven guilty remains a sensible policy. Those seeking to escape justice really do not need any further help to get away with it.

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and author of the Jack of Kent blog.

His legal journalism has included popularising the Simon Singh libel case and discrediting the Julian Assange myths about his extradition case.  His uncovering of the Nightjack email hack by the Times was described as "masterly analysis" by Lord Justice Leveson.

David is also a solicitor and was successful in the "Twitterjoketrial" appeal at the High Court.

(Nothing on this blog constitutes legal advice.)

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war