Keir Starmer's report on rape allegations tells us more about their nature than their number

The CPS review of false rape allegations doesn't offer any clear answers.

 

The Director of Public Prosecution, Keir Starmer, is understandably keen to dispel the damaging myths and stereotypes which are associated with rape cases. “One such misplaced belief is that false allegations of rape and domestic violence are rife," he says.

It is probably true that the prevalence of such cases is often overestimated. Most credible research places false allegations at between about two and ten per cent of all complaints, the difference between a small minority and a tiny minority. However, the new review does not, and indeed cannot contribute any kind of estimate of the extent of false allegations, its methodology does not allow it.        

The CPS research reviewed 132 suspected false rape allegations where the evidence of fabrication was strong enough to require a decision on pressing charges, either for perverting the course of justice or wasting police time. (There were also 27 cases relating to non-sexual domestic violence - for simplicity, I’m excluding them from this discussion). Only 35 suspected false rape allegations proceeded to court. The 132 cases represent less than one per cent of reported rapes.  

Despite headline claims that false allegations are “few and far between,” these are only the cases where the evidence of falsification is strong. There were more than 16,000 reported rapes last year, of which 82 per cent did not go to trial. Proving a rape allegation to be false is no easier than proving one to be true, and for every case where there is enough evidence of fabrication to justify possible prosecution, there must be others where the allegation is false, but there is little or no evidence to prove that. How many such cases might there be? It is impossible to know for sure and this study makes no attempt to find out. Anyone who states confidently what the total number might be is speaking from faith, not evidence.

So the CPS review provides no clean, simple answers about the extent of false rape allegations. It is nonetheless valuable for the light it shines on the gruesome complexities. The case studies do not portray spiteful, malicious characters bent on blackmail or revenge, but a ragged bag of sorry stories. Around half are under 21, many have mental health issues or learning difficulties. False reports from over a third of the younger suspects were made by parents or partners, after a domestic lie spiralled out of control.

The cases echo a messy reality described in a recent paper in the British Journal of Criminology which observed that there is not even consensus on what is meant by a false allegation. Drawing upon interviews with police and prosecutors, Dr Candida Saunders distinguished between reports of rapes which had not occurred (false complaints) and reports of rape which contain falsehoods (false accounts).

False complaints, her interviewees suggested, are actually very rare, but reports which contain falsehoods are described as being common. A typical example might be a complainant who told police that she had only had one or two vodkas before tests revealed her to be eight times over the driving limit. Others lie as to the extent of their prior relationship with the alleged attacker, or the circumstances by which they came to be alone together. Such false accounts do not mean the complainant has not been raped, in most cases the assumption is that s/he has been, but they do damage the credibility of a witness and undermine prospects of successful prosecution. Saunders argues that many presumed false reports may actually be false accounts. If there is to be better understanding of the nature of false allegations among police, prosecutors and the public, this is the area where it should begin.

What do we know for sure about false allegations? Very little, beyond the fact that they do sometimes occur. In a judicial system that requires conviction beyond all reasonable doubt it is almost academic whether the proportion is one in a hundred or one in ten - each case must be judged on its merits. It is important to note that 84 per cent of the cases studied by CPS involved a specific, named individual as the alleged assailant. Each could be expected to suffer great distress as a result, and false allegations can and do destroy lives. The CPS is right, I believe, to ignore pleas from some feminist groups to end all prosecutions for false rape allegations which would leave victims of a serious crime without protection or justice. The CPS is also right to tend against prosecution in all but the most egregious cases, given the complexities and possibilities for miscarriage of justice involved.            

There is another sense in which this debate is academic. Recent IPCC investigations into the Met’s Sapphire Unit revealed an appalling record of incompetence, inadequacy and occasional outright corruption in the investigation of rape complaints, and it would be dangerous to assume this is restricted to London. The significance of false allegations must be marginal when so many reports were barely investigated at all, where evidence wasn’t collected or was actively destroyed. Ensuring that our police forces are willing and able to investigate the cases before them with honesty, competence and commitment would be the best protection for victims of rape and of false allegations alike. 

Keir Starmer, Director of Public Prosecutions. Photograph: Getty Images
Getty
Show Hide image

How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism