Banks looked at Stott again. “Well,” the latter said stiffly. “He seems a bit slow to me, but given that it wasn’t a busy night and Pierce seems to have been about his only customer, I think we can rely on him, yes.”
“Good. And what’s this other place now… Ah, the Peking Moon. A Chinese restaurant.” He wrinkled his nose. “Chinaman, I suppose?”
“Born and bred in Whitechapel,” said Stott.
“Chinaman with a cockney accent, then?”
“Yes.”
Oakes shook his head. “Juries don’t like Chinamen. Don’t trust them. Still think of the old Fu Manchu image, you know, inscrutable, yellow peril and all that. Don’t go for it myself, but you can’t seem to get these racist attitudes out of people’s minds as quickly as you’d like, and you certainly can’t legislate them away. Still, we’ll do our best. Bright fellow, is he?”
“He’s very articulate,” said Stott.
“Good, that’ll help. Unless he seems too bright, of course. Juries don’t like people who come across as being too clever. Especially foreigners. They expect it of the boffins, of course, but not of your common-or-garden sort of restaurateur. Well, can’t be helped.” He got up and refilled his coffee mug from the machine on the filing cabinet. “Now what really bothers me,” he went on, “is this other stuff here.” He reached into the pile again and pulled out more papers. “You took a statement from a woman called Michelle Chappel, an ex-girlfriend of Pierce’s. It’s all above board, of course, but the whole issue’s dodgy.” He clicked his tongue and rested his hand on the papers, as if ready to swear on the Bible. “Dodgy in the extreme.”
“In what way?” asked Banks.
Oakes sat back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head and quoted at the cracked ceiling. “‘A trial judge in a criminal trial has always a discretion to refuse to admit evidence if in his opinion its prejudicial effect outweighs its probative value.’ Lord Diplock, Regina v. Sang, 1979.”
“And do you think this is the case with Michelle Chappel’s statement?” Banks asked.
“I’m saying it could be a problem. ‘There should be excluded from the jury information about the accused which is likely to have an influence on their minds prejudicial to the accused which is out of proportion to the true probative value of admissible evidence conveying that information.’ Same source. And it usually relates to evidence of similar fact. You’re implying here, by trying to introduce the woman’s statement as evidence, that Pierce was just the kind of person who would commit such a crime. Freudian mumbo-jumbo, and juries don’t like it, except on television. And, more to the point, a lot of judges don’t like it, either.”
Banks shrugged. “I’m aware of the similar fact rule,” he said, “but what we’re trying to establish here is a history of violence against women. And there’s a marked physical similarity between the two victims. We’re trying to get at a motive.”
Oakes’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes, that’s all very well and good, Banks. But then you’re an imaginative sort of chap, kind who reads a lot of fiction, aren’t you? If you understand the problem of similar fact evidence, then you must see that what you’re doing is saying that Pierce was the sort of person who would commit such a crime because he once acted in a way similar to the perpetrator of the crime under consideration. And, what’s more, it’s an unreported crime based purely on the evidence of a woman who no doubt despises the man for rejecting her.” He tut-tutted again and drank some coffee. “Still,” he mused, “stranger things have happened.”
“So what’s your conclusion?” Banks asked.
“My conclusion?” He slapped the stack of coffee-stained files. “Oh, we’ll give it a try. Why not? At worst, her evidence can only be declared inadmissible.” He chuckled. “It used to be that the definition of inadmissible evidence was anything that might help the defense. That was in the good old days. Sometimes, depending on the judge, you can get a bit of leeway on these matters, especially in a case as serious as this one. I’ve seen similar fact evidence admitted more than once. What the rule actually states is that the mere fact that the accused has previously acted in a similar way to the crime he is standing trial for is not relevant. However, if there’s a very close similarity, something that links the two events in a convincing way as part of a whole system of actions, an emerging pattern, so much so that it becomes more than a matter of mere coincidence, then such evidence may be admissible. Do you follow me?”
“I think so,” said Banks.
“If we attempt to show that the two assaults are part of such a pattern,” Oakes continued, “then we might just be able to squeeze it in. Depending on the judge, of course. Have you got a psychologist you can consult on this? What about that young woman I’ve seen you with in the Queen’s Arms? Pretty young thing. Redhead. Isn’t she a psychologist?”
“Jenny Fuller?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes. But Jenny’s still teaching in America. She won’t be back until after Christmas.”
“That’ll do fine. No hurry, dear boy, no hurry. We’ve got enough for committal already. Just need something to beef up the admissibility quotient, if we can.”
“Are you going to prosecute, then?”
Oakes drank more coffee, looked at the papers and sniffed a few times. “Oh, I think so,” he said, after what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes, I think we’ve got a good case. What about you, Denise?”
Denise Campbell nodded. “Let’s nail the bastard,” she said. Then she blushed and put her hand over her mouth as if she had just burped.
II
Owen’s committal proceeding occurred in early February. The whole affair was about as exciting as a damp squib, more reminiscent of a college faculty meeting than an affair at which grave matters were decided. Nobody was even wearing wigs and robes.
He appeared before three JPs one bitter cold morning, and on Wharton’s advice, they heard the “new-style committal.” That is, they read all the prosecution’s statements and the defense offered no case. It was basically committal by consent. And just as Wharton had guaranteed, the JPs agreed there was prima facie case and Owen was bound over for trial in the Crown Court. A trial date was set for late March. There were a few spectators in court, and Owen’s name was now known to the general public, but only the charges and bare details were made known to the press, not the actual evidence.
Luckily, Owen had quickly got used to the monotony of prison routine: lights on, slop out, lights out, sleep. After the first few weeks, he had lost track of time. He was allowed out of his cell only to exercise in the dreary yard for half an hour each day. He hardly saw another soul there but for his guards, and it was no pleasure walking around in circles alone.
The food reminded him of school dinners: bread-and-butter pudding, gray leathery beef, lumpy custard, Spam fritters. Usually he left most of it. Even so, he felt constipated most of the time.
The cells around him were all occupied. At night he heard voices, even crying sometimes, and one evening the person in the next cell tried to strike up a conversation, asking him what he’d done. But Owen didn’t answer. What could the man possibly want to talk about? Compare notes on rape and mutilation?
Mostly, he listened to the tapes Wharton brought him and read poetry and science fiction. He had Wordsworth almost by heart after the first month.