Sob stories and crocodile tears [7]

In this episode, we desperately try to find information on the young woman who has come to our street, to our house, followed Iris and confronted her, clearly believing her to be Bea. When the police tell us who she is, and what they are going to do about her visit, we are left incredulous - as well as angry and despairing.

Trigger warnings: this podcast deals with rape, sexual assault, anxiety, depression and eating disorders.
 
 Most mothers will never have to find out what happens when their child becomes the victim of a horrendous crime. I, Lisa Lennox, never imagined that it would happen to my family, to my 17-year-old daughter. But one benign, ordinary summer's day, it did. And so began my family's immersion in the horror unleashed by such a crime, the trauma, the fear, the on-going nightmare of dealing with a police and criminal justice system which, if not completely broken, is certainly fatally fractured and struggling to cope. 
 
 Everyone is Talking About This is the true story of an ordinary family forced to face an extraordinary circumstance. I’ve tried to be honest and forthright about my desperate struggle to help my child get justice - and, on many occasions, to see the reason to go on living.

Please be aware that this podcast mentions sexual assault, rape, eating disorders and mental health issues. There is occasional strong language and some graphic detail. 

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this podcast, here are some organisations you can contact in the UK:
Rape Crisis
0808 500 2222 - calls are free.
Or you can visit their website - https://247sexualabusesupport.org.uk/

Beat, the UK's eating disorder charity
08088010677 - calls are free.
Or visit their website - https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/

You can also speak to your GP or, if you are still at school, someone from your safeguarding team. 


To my listeners - please do tell your friends about this audiobook podcast and encourage them to listen so that as many people as possible are aware of the reality victims of rape are up against on a daily basis here in the UK and across the world. 

Help me to spread the word!

And contact me on: everyoneistalkingaboutthis@gmail.com 
or via Twitter: @63136_survivors to tell me what you like about the podcast and what I could improve. 

Thank you! 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:02

Everyone is talking about this. The true story of a rape case is written by mother and teacher, Lisa Lennox. On one ordinary July evening in 2021, the lives of Lisa and her family were turned upside down when her seventeen year old daughter Beatrice, or B as she prefers to be known, became the victim of one of the worst crimes that can befall anyone. What follows is the story of the aftermath of this horrific event as Lisa, her husband Phil, youngest daughter Iris, and of course, and most importantly B herself, are forced to navigate the police and the legal system in their fight for justice. Please be aware that this audiobook contains references to rape, sexual assault, mental health conditions, and eating disorders. There is also occasional strong language. In the morning I tell B what happened to Iris the evening before. I don't want to because I know it will scare her, but I have to, because there are things I need to ask her, and anyway, she hates it if she thinks anything is being hidden from her. I know that I must keep her informed, that it's her right, that I'd want the same if I were her. But a mother's natural instinct to protect is hard to quash. Once again I ask B if there's any possibility that she gave the perpetrator her name and address. She shakes her head miserably. I can't remember, she says. But I don't think I did. I wouldn't. I'm not stupid. I know you don't give out personal information. I ponder on this. I'm sure B is right that she didn't give our address. I doubt he asked for it. He wasn't planning on being her pen pal, after all. And even if she had, I wonder if he could possibly have remembered it. If I was suddenly catapulted into Afghanistan and told a street address at a moment of high emotion, I wouldn't recall it for more than a few moments. But then I'm neither a criminal nor a rapist, so what do I know? But even more of the mystery is the young woman's use of B's full name. Even if B had said it to the perpetrator, she would never ever have said Beatrice, only B, and she wouldn't have given her surname. I'm a teacher, I have to ask young people their names all the time, when I see a people doing something they shouldn't, or I simply want to say something to them, and I don't know who they are, and they only ever answer with their first name, never their surname as well, unless you really insist, and again, Mr Y would hardly have done that in the circumstances. I wander around the house mulling it over. We believe that the perpetrator got hold of her phone and in put his number, the infamous baby. If you go into your phone settings you can see who owns the phone. I do it on mine. Lisa Lennox, loud and clear. These young people know all about phones, they can do this stuff in seconds. When the girls are upstairs getting themselves ready for school, I ask Phil. He shakes his head. Bees phone is registered to me, Phil Canning. Nevertheless, I say, it shows the surname, so he could have found it out that way. Maybe. Phil isn't convinced, and neither am I. But he's caught Bee's name from somewhere, that's for sure. Phil rubs his hand across his eyes. When he removes it, his face bears an expression of unbearable pain. I don't know how, I don't know how he could know who she is, or where she lives. I interrogate Iris again. What did the young woman look like? What was she wearing? Um brown hair, big bag over her shoulder. Oh, and she had one of those things around her neck. A necklace, I question? No, Iris replies. Those things people have for their work, like you have for school, their ID. A lanyard? Yes, a lanyard. Did you see what it said? No. Iris is close to tears now, and I hate having to question her like this, but we need to know. I wasn't looking. I don't think I'd have been able to see the words on it anyway. I just remember noticing. So she has a job, I think to myself, this person who came to find my daughter. I call both David and Luke again on my way to work that Friday and leave messages for them. I put a request into the cover team at school that I have an urgent call to take at some time today, and can someone babysit my class if it comes when I'm teaching? Hearing about what has happened, a colleague kindly offers to cover my year eight library lesson period five, and that's when David calls. We're off duty, David explains, in fact we still are. But I checked my work phone and found your messages. Okay, thank you, I reply. I mean, as you can understand, we're really worried. Scared, actually. We're assuming it's someone connected to the perpetrator, to his family in London. Perhaps they want to offer money to Beatrice to drop the case or to intimidate her, or I'll send someone down to your street, David's voice cuts across mine. Did the woman threaten Iris? No, as I put in the message, they just asked if she was Beatrice Canning, and said they wanted to talk to her urgently. She said no and walked off. But whoever comes needs to talk to Pretty at the corner shop because she would have seen it all she was standing in the shop doorway. And my husband and Spencer, they both saw the young woman waiting outside our house, talking on her phone. Do you have CCTV? asks David. Or perhaps your neighbours have it. We don't, I tell him, but our neighbours might. I don't know, I can find out. As I say, we'll send someone down, reiterates David. What Iris should have done is called nine nine nine. If it happens again, that's what she must do. David ends the call as the words horse, stable door, and bolted whiz around my mind. There's no way it would have occurred to Iris to call nine nine nine. I'm amazed she had the presence of mind to say what she did. I would most likely have gaped open mouthed and been completely flawed. What B would have done I can hardly imagine. Faint probably should have been so terrified. I gather up my things ready to go home for the weekend. In the time I've been talking to David, school has finished for the day and the building is quiet. Most people try to get out not too late on a Friday. My colleague Ben who covered my lesson looks up at me as I go into the classroom to retrieve my laptop. I'm not going to ask if everything's okay, because by the look on your face it clearly isn't, he says. But take care, and let me know if there's anything I can do to help. Thanks, I reply. On my way home, numerous scenarios run through my head. The girl was carrying a big tote bag over her shoulder. Perhaps it had a bottle of acid inside to throw in B's face if she found her, or a knife. She spoke to Iris on a traffic island in the middle of the road. One push, and Iris would have been under the oncoming bus. Once back in the street there's no sign of any policeman. I put my head into the shop, but Pretty isn't there, and I decide not to speak to the assistant. I need a cup of tea to calm myself down before I go and ask the neighbours for CCTV. I also need a story. I don't want to tell everyone what has happened to be, as she has expressly said she doesn't want anyone to know apart from those who really have to. When I'm ready to start the search, I go across the road to talk to Sylvie. I think there's some CCTV at number five, and Mark has it too at thirty, she tells me. Those two numbers cover the bottom and the top of the street, which is promising. Lucky that we know everyone in our tiny road. Phil turns up, having got out of the edit suite early. He goes to number thirty and I go to five. Louis, who lives there with his wife and children, is sitting on the stairs with the door wide open. As I approach he shouts stop. I jump in alarm. Sorry, he apologizes. Just had the door painted. Got to sit here while it dries. I ask him if he has CCTV and he points up at the camera above the front door. Great, I say. What do you want it for? he asks. Because it only really shows the front garden, although Louis peers upwards again and narrows his eyes. It looks like the builders might have knocked it out of place. We just need to check up on someone who came to see one of the girls, I explained, deliberately vaguely. I only need from about seven twenty PM to seven forty, I say. Something like that. Louis opens the CCTV footage file on his laptop and shows it to me. The field of vision is much bigger than I expect, clearly showing not just the front garden but a hundred yards further on, right up to the bend of the road where Pretty's shop is. So the builders have definitely moved it, says Louis. Lucky for you. Indeed, I agree. We have a quick look, but I don't spot anything, and I'm conscious of taking up too much of his time. I'll send you the file, he says. Phil comes home. He's gone through the CCTV at number thirty, and taken screenshots of the young woman walking past the house. That's her, though, he says, the girl who was hanging around, talking incessantly on the phone while Spencer and I were chatting. This shows her at seven oh five PM. We should send it to the police. I will do, he affirms, but let's look at number five's first because we know that you, Iris, and this woman all walked past. At that moment I hear Iris on the stairs. She's been in her bedroom doing homework. I nudge Phil and make a shushing gesture. I don't want to be talking about it in front of the girls. They don't need anything else to be terrified of right now. Until we know for sure if this woman is connected to the perpetrator, they don't need to know. Iris asks me for help with her homework, and then it's time to prepare the evening meal. It's nine thirty before the girls are in bed, and Phil and I have another chance to examine the footage. We watch it with baited breath. I'm such a dinosaur, I didn't even realise that CCTV had audio, but this one does, and it's very clear. Minute by minute passes by, various people walk up and down, smoking, talking on phones, dragging dawdling dogs on leads, scratching their asses or picking their noses, things people do when they think no one is watching. Normal London street life. It's Iris Phil shouts suddenly. We peer into the screen as the CCTV footage unfolds. Shortly behind Iris appears the young woman as ever on her phone. Both of them go round the corner out of sight. A few moments later there's me following. We are all out of vision for a short period. A double decker bus passes by on the main road, heading uphill. There's a pause and we see another bus, a single decker this time, heading downhill. That's the bus Iris gets on, I say. Another pause. And then the young woman is back, walking towards our street, on the phone, her voice but not her words clearly audible. She's crying, says Phil. She sounds angry, upset, annoyed. I stare at the image intently. It's hard to tell, but she's definitely in a bit of a state. She approaches number five. She's talking loudly and avidly in a language I don't recognise. She passes the garden gate and disappears under the neighbour's overhanging shrubs. There's a pause and then a few more lines of dialogue before she moves out of range. She's not speaking English in general, I bite my lip, thinking, but I'm sure I spotted something. Play it again, can you? Phil replays the short section. There, I exclaim, did you hear it? It's mostly foreign, but then she clearly says something in English. Play it again and listen really carefully. Phil does so. He shakes his head. I'm not getting it. I tart irritatedly. She says blah blah blah, foreign foreign foreign, then absolutely crystal clear. I didn't see her eyes. You must be able to hear, it's so clear, and she sounds cross and defensive, as if she's being questioned about why she's not pursued Iris further. And then as she goes out of view she says the word garden, as if she's explaining. I saw her come out of the garden. I sit back, triumphant. Phil plays it again. Okay, I can hear it now you've pointed it out. The thing is, I suggest, who would know the colour of Bee's eyes other than the perpetrator? And this would be a feature he might describe in detail in order to identify Bee, along with her hair colour. Her eyes are so distinctive, that incredibly pale blue grey. It's as if this woman is saying to the person she's talking to that she's followed someone, but it's not Bee, and she's being challenged about that. Why didn't you ask her more questions? Why did you let her get away? Did you get a proper look at her? How'd you know it wasn't her? What colour were her eyes? Phil stares at the screen. I can hear his deep measured breathing as he takes it all in. I leap to conclusions, always running at a hundred miles an hour, but Phil likes to consider things, take it slowly. What the fuck? he says. He so rarely swears, but at the moment he's doing it all the time. Who could she be talking to other than the perpetrator? But how could she be if he's in prison? You can't just be available on the phone in prison, can you? I shake my head. I don't know, I wouldn't have thought so, but on the other hand, we hear that prisoners can get hold of anything if they want to, drugs, phones, weapons, you name it. Pentonville, for example, is notorious for it, not that we know where he's being held. Later we are to discover that Mr Y is indeed in Pentonville and does have access to contraband goods. We sit in silence for a few minutes, absorbing the information we've unearthed. I'll send that clip to the police, I decide, and I'll see if I can find anyone who can understand what she's saying in that other language. There must be someone at my exercise class who speaks Dari or Pashto, or knows someone who does. I think those are the main Afghan languages. Yes, agrees Phil, and I think I should contact Caroline. Caroline is an old friend of Phil's, who not only happens to be B's godmother, but who is also a police officer. Having served her thirty years in the Metropolitan Police Force, she retired last year and now works part time. She doesn't live in London anymore, but she's not too far away. Good idea. She might have some insight into all of this. But it must be witness intimidation, mustn't it? Victim intimidation more accurately. That girl clearly thought Iris was Beatrice. I think of the makeup, the mascara and lip gloss. It made Iris look older. Old enough to be mistaken for Beatrice? Probably. Phil purses his lips. His fists are clenched. Phil is not generally an angry person, but when he gets angry, he can get really, really angry. We need to keep calm, I warn him. Phil opens his hands, stretches out his fingers, and then closes them again. I can sense him imagining closing them around the perpetrator's throat. I just want to know how he knows her name and where we live, I continue. I don't believe B gave him either. So where on earth did he get all that information from? In the morning I am greeted by the shocking, horrendous main news story of the day. In East London, Sabina Nessa has been murdered whilst walking to meet a friend. I cry and cry about this. Phil cries too. It's not our personal tragedy, but it is a collective tragedy, our country's tragedy, every woman and girl's tragedy. We're lucky, so lucky that B is alive. As well as mourning the loss of another woman cut down in her prime, we have to deal with the latest development in our own ongoing nightmare. Bill and I spend the weekend obsessed with the young woman's visit. He goes to John Lewis and comes back with a full CCTV and floodlight system, which he installs above the front door, together with an Alexa monitor on which we can watch what is happening outside. The irony strikes me. Modern technology, cameras, video screens can help us so much, but all of this watching and monitoring and recording does not stop terrible crimes being committed. The best that can be said is that they make it easier to catch the culprits. I put a post on my builder looking for someone who can install a new front door. Our current one is not very good. I could probably put a boot through it myself if I really tried. And the locks, though insurance approved, are not the best. I want a new door with Bannham locks, a spy hole, I want an alarm. I want to live in Fort Knox, my home unassailable, a sanctuary from the nastiness and evil that lies outside. I watch and rewatch the CCTV. The young woman, who from now on I'll call Miss X, definitely says I didn't see her eyes. Someone from my exercise group replies to my WhatsApp, she can pass the footage onto a Dari and Pashto speaker. Phil outputs it as an audio file so it's smaller and easier to email. I send it over. I wait anxiously. I can't pester, can't ask when she'll be able to do it. After all, it's a favour being offered by someone I've never met. At midnight she responds. She cannot understand it. It's not Dari or Pashto. On Sunday I try Fiverr. I contact a number of Punjabi to English translators and send the audio file to one of them. He cannot understand it. I'm running out of options, and Caroline cautions me not to distribute it too widely in case it harms any case that might eventually be made against this woman. I phone David to harass him about the alarm app and to request that Iris has it too. He says he'll get them installed and come round on Monday to test them. He also tells me he's taken a statement from Spencer and from Pretty at the corner shop. I've sent him and Luke the CCTV, but he doesn't comment on that and seems entirely uninterested in it, despite him being the one who asked me to look for it, and despite how it seems so clearly to show that Miss X is talking to and taking directions from someone who is almost certainly Mr Y. In work on Monday I ask my Bengali speaking colleagues to listen, but the language is not Bengali either. I leave work the minute teaching ends at three thirty PM to get home for four thirty, anxious to be there well before David is due to arrive. He texts me to say he's running late. Then he texts me to say he's waiting on someone to help him test the apps. Then he texts to say he's sorting out a car. I start to feel frustrated and have to make myself calm down. I bustle around, tidying and cleaning, killing time until he arrives. As well as the frustration, I'm more and more angry. Someone invaded our privacy, approached a fifteen year old on a traffic island in the middle of a busy road, undoubtedly for some nefarious reason to do with the assault on Beatrice. How can this be happening to us? To two innocent teenage girls? It's too much, much, much, much too much. I mutter something uncharitable under my breath about David. Mum, please be, don't be cross with him. I don't want you to be angry with David. I'm sorry, B. She is always so kind, so worried about offending anyone. Too kind, too worried. Perhaps that is what the perpetrator saw in her, which enabled or encouraged him to rape her and to think he could get away with it. I understand you feel loyal to David as your sew it, I say, carefully searching for the words, but there are some things I feel he could have done better, and I think it's okay to say that, because the police need to know. I get told when my teaching isn't up to scratch, so I can learn and improve. Everybody has areas where they are not perfect. There will be other victims after you, unfortunately, so it's good if you can use your experience to help others. David arrives two and a half hours after our scheduled meeting time. I've just put the spaghetti on and have to turn it off. Good news, he says, as soon as he's in and has refused a cup of tea. We've identified the young woman who approached Iris and spoke to her. Oh wow. I'm stunned into a momentary silence. I'm surprised. I had thought it would take some time. Yes, we match the description given by your neighbour, Spencer Wellbeck, to photographs on the defendant's phone. Right. My colleagues have spoken to her today, David continues. So who is she? And why was she looking for Beatrice? David gives one of his unsolicited chuckles. She tells us that she is closely connected to the defendant, he explains. In fact, that she's his fiance. My mouth falls open. It occurs to me that my jaw has developed a habit of regularly dropping to a round pavement level lately. His fiance? I can hardly comprehend it. But I mean, if he's got a girlfriend, a fiance, no less, why is he having sex in the street with a woman he's never met before? David shrugs. I realise the stupidity of my comment. Man has sex with woman who's not his girlfriend is hardly a news story, is it? But still, it beggars belief. How did he know her full name though? I continue. This is what we can't work out. Because B would never have called herself Beatrice, and the girl asked for Beatrice Canning. You'll have heard it in court. David says the words as if I'm a bit simple. The world stands still. But but I stutter you you told us before that rape victims are anonymous. I asked, and you said that. David nods. Anonymous in the press, yes. But obviously the complainant's name will be said in court. It's only fair he knows who's accusing him. My mind is reeling trying to take this in. To me, there's no obviously about it. But that's not what you told us, I say. I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression. David doesn't look that sorry, but I'm not even sure if his repertoire of facial expressions caters for that emotion. It wasn't an impression, it was what you said. David shrugs again. The defendant has to know the name of the complainant in order for it to be a fair trial. This fact that David states as if sacrosanct makes no sense to me. But if he didn't know her name when he attacked her, I don't understand why he has the right to know it afterwards, I rail, tears threatening anew. She could be called Mary Poppins or Minnie Mouse. Her name is irrelevant because he doesn't know her. What's a name got to do with a fair trial? Iris clatters a glass against the tap in the kitchen. The distraction stops me in my tracks.

unknown 21:59

We were

SPEAKER_00 22:00

Misled, but it's what is called the law justice. The law and the justice that say that a man can rape a woman whose name he doesn't know, but for fairness' sake, he must be told her name afterwards. Who was it who said the law is an ass? Beatrice appears from wherever she'd melted off to. So what's her explanation for seeking out Beatrice, I demand. And what's going to happen to her? Our officers have spoken to her, says David. She said she was really upset that her fiance is in prison, which he'd only just found out about. Apparently he told her the general area where he met B and the direction she was walking in, and using this information the fiancee searched the neighborhood for some time to find your street. She said she wanted to speak to Beatrice to get some answers about what really happened, because he told her he didn't do anything. In retrospect, she said she was very tearful and sorry and remorseful about what she'd done. Spare me the crocodile tears and the sub story I snap. She's come here and terrorized our family. I don't care how upset she is about her rapist boyfriend. I see B flinch. I mustn't make it worse for her. But honestly, who wouldn't cry and invent some poor me narrative when spoken to and reprimanded by the police? Sorry, I apologise, I don't mean to be rude, but really, how could she possibly just have happened upon our street, our house, by some serendipitous turn of fortune? It's not feasible. There's a massive housing estate between us and where the attack happened. We could live in any one of those blocks. And anyway, she was standing outside our gate for ages, so we know that's not true. She knew exactly the street and the house number. Plus, you say she's only just found out he's in prison. Where does she think her boyfriend's been for the last seven weeks? He's an asylum seeker in a pandemic. He can't go on holiday. He can't be on a mini break at Butlin's Minehead. My previous self censorship when it comes to sarcasm has long gone. This woman has violated the sanctity of my home and I won't stand for it. He's lied to her, obviously, says David. He said he's innocent, and she innocent of what? I interrupt. Mum, remonstrates B. Tears are filling her eyes, and her legs are shaking as they used to when the food appeared in the eating disorders clinic. She's really stressed, and I don't want to make it worse. Okay, right. Well, presumably she's been charged with victim intimidation, I ask. I'll stop quizzing David once I know that the matter is in hand. I don't know, answers David. It's probable that, as no harm was done and her intention was only to ask questions, a crime has not been made out. I can't believe my ears. But we only have her word for the fact that she only wanted to ask questions, I protest. We don't know that. We have no idea whether she's telling the truth or not. Did anyone search her bag? Though it would be too late for that, I guess. But what about who she's speaking to on the phone? It's clear she's taking directions from someone, someone who knows what B looks like, and surely the only person that could be is him, Mr Y. I'll have to check with my colleagues about the outcome of their investigation. David's answer is evasive and I smell a rat. I know Beatrice is already on edge, but I have to ask. But you've taken her phone to find out who she was speaking to. David smiles in the infuriating way he has and fidgets with his pen. We have no power to do that. Why not? Data protection laws, we can only take her phone if we charge her, and we don't have grounds to charge her, so no phone. I'm flabbergasted. But you say she was really cooperative and remorseful, etc. So surely if she were asked, she might just tell you who she was speaking to. David clicks his pen a few times. Rather than answer my question he changes the subject. I take that as a no. No one asked her who she was speaking to. The good news is that she's agreed to appear as a witness of the prosecution, says David, hopefully, as if this little crumb of information will placate me. I absorb that fact for a moment. Which will prove what? That her boyfriend's a liar? Precisely that. I ponder this but can't make any sense of it. Will that help? Well, if she shows up, it should be good for our case, David replies. What do you mean if she shows up? Does she have a choice if she's called as a witness? Oh yes, no one has to appear. We rely for the most part on goodwill, and fortunately for Beatrice, her friends, the girl who found her, everyone we've so far spoken to, in fact, is willing to come to court for her. I'm stunned. I take a gulp of my tea which is stone cold now. I thought it was compulsory if you're called to be a witness, that you have to go. Oh no, replies David, ever cheerful. He looks at me as if to ask where I got such a preposterous idea from. It's yet another part of the criminal justice system that throws me completely. How can it be that someone who could be instrumental in convicting a criminal, or acquitting one for that matter, has a choice over whether to appear or not? Suddenly everything takes on an even darker tone. What if, in the event, everybody gets cold feet and nobody shows up to speak on B's behalf, despite David's optimism? By the way, I say, casting a glance at B. She's reading something on her phone, seeming to have lost interest in my conversation with David, but I'm not deceived. I know she's listening. Is anyone going to ask me about the night in question? About what B said to me when I brought her back from the pub? In my head I can hear her moaning. It hurt, Mummy, it hurt. Because I'm the only person she said those things to, so if no one talks to me, how will anyone know? I'll ask the investigating officer, responds David uncertainly. Shall we take a look at the apps now? I ask, changing the subject. I call Iris down so that her phone can be checked too. David tests both alarms and then immediately phones the police station to avert the sudden arrival of squad cars of officers attending an assault. He leaves and I return to my spaghetti pot. The pastor has been sitting in lukewarm water for the duration of David's visit, and looks swollen, pale, and anemic. I drain the water, put the spaghetti in the food recycling bin and start afresh. When Phil gets home from work, I try to relay to him what David's told me and realise, as I do so, how many questions have been left unanswered. He said that it's probable that a crime has not been made out, I explain. David's words ring in my ears. No crime made out, how can that be? And then probable so not certain. But even so, then not going to look into it. In bed that night the words reverberate around my mind, precluding sleep. I bury my head in my pillow to stifle my desire to scream out loud. Is it really the case that someone closely connected to a person in prison on accusation of rape can stake out the victim's neighbourhood, lie in wait outside that victim's house, follow the person they think is the victim, and approach that victim using her full name, and all of that is okay. That a man who didn't know his child victim's name before he raped her is entitled to know it afterwards. That witnesses can choose whether to show up in court or not. That crucial pieces of evidence, mine for example, might just be ignored. If that is the truth of our criminal justice system, then the system stinks.