The right to remain silent etc.

There can be little argument that the genre of crime fiction, whether in book or film form, is the most addictive avenue of diversion that most readers and viewers long for. To be curled up in bed on a cold and wet evening, thumbing through a P.D. James or a Dorothy Sayers mystery with a mug of hot chocolate is a consummation devoutly to be wished, to employ an expression culled from Hamlet’s most celebrated speech. Depending on personal preference, it could also be a Sherlock Holmes or an Inspector Morse that you might take a shine to. One is spoilt for choice when it comes to crime. There are still others, if crime is not your bag, who might plump for a light-hearted Jeeves and Wooster caper, as I often do myself but for the moment, I am focused on crime, as I have some pertinent, if offbeat, views to share. Do I see a hand going up? No Sir, nobbling Lord Emsworth’s noble sow, the Empress of Blandings does not qualify as   serious crime. Not in my book, anyway.

I have lost count of the number of crime-related movies or television serials I must have watched. Books as well, and for the purposes of this essay, the terms books and films can be used interchangeably. Brilliant as most of these films are, they tend to fall prey to a clutch of well-worn tropes which is pretty much unavoidable, but pose interesting questions. Incidentally, as an entertainment form, the British do crime with greater subtlety and finesse than anyone else, and not too many people will take umbrage with that assertion. Getting back to the cliché, imagine if you will, the following scene. A murder suspect has been brought in by the police for questioning. He is anxiously waiting in the interview room, chewing his finger nails, sweat beads beginning to form on his brow. That is exactly how the inspector and his deputy want him, as they watch the probable killer through the one-way mirror, before entering the room. It would also not have escaped anyone’s attention that the inspector’s sidekick is invariably portrayed as one who is slightly challenged intellectually, is patronizingly put upon by his boss and thus carries a sizeable chip on his shoulder. Once in a rare while, he gets his own back, which adds greatly to the charm of the narrative. Holmes’ Watson and Morse’s Lewis are fine examples of this genre of underlings.

The following exchange then takes place, after the junior police officer formally records the interview formalities. For the sake of verisimilitude, I shall dub the pair of police officers Morse and Lewis. With due apologies to their creator, Colin Dexter. Inspector Morse opens the proceedings, addressing the suspect in the time-honoured fashion, ‘Please state your full name for the record.’

 ‘Hyde, Edward. Inspector, you have got the wrong man. I was nowhere near the scene of the murder.’

 ‘So you say, Mr. Hyde, so you say and I don’t, for a moment, believe that is your real name. Tell me, where were you on the evening of the 27^th of July between 6.30 and 7.45 pm?’

I have yet to come across an episode without that question being posed to the suspect. Bear in mind that this interview is being conducted roughly three months after the date of the murder, and the suspect, who allegedly committed the dreaded deed, is initially out of his depth faced with this query, but rallies well and is equal to the task.

 ‘With respect Inspector, I can hardly remember what I was doing yesterday afternoon, leave alone something that I am suspected of having done three months ago. Have a heart, Sir. Come to that, can you tell me what you were up to on the 10^th of July between 7 and 9 am? Hmmm? Foxed? I rest my case.’

Inspector Morse bridles. ‘Now look here, Mr. Hyde. I ask the questions around here, so let’s have none of your cheek. “Rest my case,” indeed! I am talking about a ghastly, premeditated murder, one in which you strangled the victim to death in her bathtub. Surely, anyone would clearly remember the date and time of such an event?’

At this point, Morse’s deputy, Lewis shoves his oar in. ‘If I might interject Sir, ever since Alfred Hitchcock’s blockbuster Psycho was released, murders in bathtubs and under showers have gone up by leaps and bounds; 33% to be exact.’

 ‘Thank you for that priceless input, Lewis. Can we get back to the strangling? I am pressed for time.’ His boss’ sarcasm is lost on Lewis, but he acquiesces.

At this point, the suspect pipes up. ‘Alleged strangling, Inspector, alleged. You are forgetting your police etiquette. I am here as a suspect, an innocent victim of mistaken identity. I have the right to remain silent, but I am cooperating. You are going to be the laughing stock with the judge and the public at large when we go to court.’

 ‘We shall see about that. And you talk too much.’ With that Morse flounces out of the room, Lewis in tow.

That was an impressionistic sketch of a situation I have frequently come across in crime fiction, where the cops have invariably been found to come up short against a fast-talking suspect who is probably guilty, but knows there is no concrete evidence even if his own alibi is dodgy. I harbour a sneaking sympathy for the suspect, because I can never recall what I had for lunch a couple of days ago, if called upon to reveal the menu. Which brings me to another situation in the police interrogation room, in which the suspect’s solicitor plays an active part.

Inspector Morse opens a fresh line of attack. ‘Mr. Hyde, you were seen loitering with intent in the vicinity of the crime just an hour before the murder took place. What do you have to say for yourself?’

The suspect is about to answer when his solicitor urgently whispers something into his ear and proceeds to reply. ‘My client is not obliged to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate him. Furthermore, it was 11 in the morning in a crowded street corner and your CCTV cameras would have captured several other people strolling by in the area. Why should my client be singled out and brought in for questioning? Rather invidious, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?’

Morse was now at his ironic best. ‘Perhaps because he was the only one in that crowded street corner who was seen running away from the crime scene at the speed of Usain Bolt, with a knife soaked in blood in his right hand? And, by the way, you can’t impress me with fancy words. Invidious, shinvidious!’

 Lewis could not let this pass. ‘Sir, invidious means to give rise to offence. In fact, the judge in an earlier case, Carlill vs Carbolic Smokeball, employed that exact word when…’

 ‘My dear chap, can you kindly put a sock in it? I have enough problems to deal with here without your asinine interruptions.’ The deputy crawled back into his shell like a salted snail.

At this point, the suspect butted in, ‘Officer, I was only….’

 ‘Shut up, Hyde,’ snapped his solicitor. ‘I will take that question. Forgive my client, Inspector. He is new to your interrogation techniques. The fact is, my client was helping his friend at a nearby eatery to cut some vegetables and accidentally cut his middle finger which started bleeding profusely. Your cameras caught him when he was rushing out to get some urgent medical attention and first aid at a nearby nursing home. He was in such great pain that he even forgot to leave the kitchen knife behind at the eatery.’

 ‘Left or right?’

 ‘Pardon?’

 ‘Which hand?’

 ‘Er, the right hand. Are you playing mind games with me, Officer? Surely, you can see that from the CCTV cameras.’

Morse’s brows furrowed. ‘Curiouser and curiouser. Nice try, my friend. And you call that a bandage? Let’s get serious. I want the name and address of this fictitious eatery.’

And so the long day wears on, the police team is unable to break through the suspect’s defences. Here’s the thing that always tickles me. What exactly is behind the legal mumbo-jumbo in saying, ‘I won’t speak on the grounds that it might incriminate me?’ I have never understood that. In my books, just saying that alone should indicate that you are trying to hide something, which sounds extremely incriminating. I am sure some legal boffin would put me right on that, but speaking as a layman, it has always been something that puzzled me.

Finally, I touch upon the ‘no comment’ scenario. When all else fails, and the suspect is had by the short and curlies and has nowhere to hide, he falls back on the tried and tested ‘no comment’ strategy.

 Inspector Morse goes for the kill. ‘Mr. Hyde, the murdered victim was a very wealthy man. How do you explain scanned copies of his last will and testament and bank statements turning up in your laptop?’

‘No comment.’

‘We found traces of the victim’s blood on your shirt sleeves. Would you care to explain? And don’t give me some applesauce about tomato sauce from your friend’s kitchen.’

‘No comment.’

‘Mr. Edward Hyde, what is your name?’

‘No comment.’

Lewis is amused. ‘That was quite funny, Sir.’

‘We are not amused,’ says Morse in regal fashion. ‘For the last time Lewis, cease and desist or I will order you to leave the room.’

The detective inspector again turns to the suspect. ‘Mr. Hyde, let me caution you. There is a limit to exercising your right to remain silent. You are not a trappist monk. For the last time, this ‘no comment’ tactic will not help. My assistant and I are going to leave the room for ten minutes. I strongly suggest you consult with your solicitor and come up with some answers. I expect a full confession.’

That is about the size of it. When a suspect goes on repeating ‘no comment’ like a well-trained parrot, it kind of stymies the long arm of the law. What kind of defence is that? Clearly, from a legal standpoint, there is more to this than meets the eye. Like the earlier examples, this too had me struggling for answers. On balance, it is not the worst option to take a leaf out of the suspect’s book and stick to ‘no comment.’ Seems to work wonders for criminals. A lawyer might disagree. After all they are, likely as not, paid by the word. As Franz Kafka observed, ‘A lawyer is a person who writes a 10,000-word document and calls it a brief.’