Statutes of limitation apply to such cases in the US and rest of Europe. Yet for some victims, delayed justice is better than no justice
One interesting aspect about the case of Stuart Hall, the British television personality who pleaded guilty yesterday to 14 counts of sexual assault, is that it couldn't have happened in the United States. Not because American TV stars are necessarily better behaved than their British counterparts, although the steady drumbeat of arrests – which in the last week alone have included Bill Roache, star of the country's longest-running soap opera, Coronation Street, and Rolf Harris, singer and beloved children's TV host who recently painted an official portrait of the Queen – is hard to even imagine in American terms. The New York Times reporter Sarah Lyall probably came as close as anyone when she wrote: "it is as if Captain Kangaroo, Dick Clark and Jerry Lewis" had all been accused of sex crimes dating back 30 or 40 years.
Britain is unique in Europe in having no statute of limitations for serious sexual offences. The average in the rest of Europe is 12 years; in the US, where such crimes are prosecuted by each state, the limit varies. In Arkansas and California, for example, charges have to be brought within three years; in New York and New Jersey there is no statute of limitations for sexual assault, but for sexual abuse the limit is five years; in Ohio the limit is 12 years. In the wake of the Jerry Sandusky scandal some states have moved to abolish their limits, however those are in the minority.
I've lived in London for nearly 20 years, but arrived too late in life to ever understand the appeal of Jimmy Savile, the weird, blond cigar-smoking imp who, lionised by the BBC in the months after his death in October 2011, has since been revealed as a monster who preyed on dozens, perhaps hundreds of victims. It was the outcry over Savile's crimes, which prompted Operation Yewtree, the police investigation into sex abuse whose targets so far also include pop star Gary Glitter, comedian Freddie Starr, DJ David Lee Travis and mega-publicist Max Clifford – some of them household names even in my household.
It is as if once the shield of celebrity that protected Savile had been breached, a vast cohort of victims who either had their accusations brushed aside or had a well-founded expectation of being silenced have suddenly regained their voices. Which has to be a good thing.
There has at times been something disturbing about the mounting hysteria in the British press, the toxic mix of web gossip, moral outrage, sexual panic and prurient posturing that has already accused at least one innocent man. If the British entertainment establishment's original sin was to dismiss the claims of the victims, the natural impulse is to shift the balance of belief – and, at least in the court of public opinion, the burden of proof. When the alleged crime took place 20, 30 or even 40 years ago, there is very little chance of any physical evidence surviving, yet Hall's case suggests that for some victims at least, justice delayed – even by 45 years – is better than no justice at all.
So where does that leave us? It is probably too much to hope that, whatever further revelations Operation Yewtree has in store, Britain begins a long-overdue national conversation about the culture of celebrity entitlement, sexist privilege, and reflexive deference which deprived so many not only of their youth but of their credibility. For the media, such a conversation, particularly if its ambit expanded from denouncing the BBC's seemingly chronic blindness concerning celebrity predators to the casual brutality of newsrooms and newsdesks, with their iron-clad hierarchy of "innocent" victims and habitual offenders, is bound to be uncomfortable.
But maybe we can at least ask ourselves some hard questions – not just about who to believe, and when, and how many allegations add up to a pattern of evidence. Maybe we can also talk honestly about the weird symbiosis between our obsession with royal reproduction and our outrage over celebrity sex. Or the way a public culture that only values women as sexual objects might encourage powerful men to treat women … as objects. Or even about how our purported horror at the sexual exploitation of children is belied by the programmes we watch and the products we buy – and what it might mean to allow children and teenagers some agency of their own, and what it would take to make a world where it felt safe for them to use it? Reported by guardian.co.uk 42 minutes ago.
One interesting aspect about the case of Stuart Hall, the British television personality who pleaded guilty yesterday to 14 counts of sexual assault, is that it couldn't have happened in the United States. Not because American TV stars are necessarily better behaved than their British counterparts, although the steady drumbeat of arrests – which in the last week alone have included Bill Roache, star of the country's longest-running soap opera, Coronation Street, and Rolf Harris, singer and beloved children's TV host who recently painted an official portrait of the Queen – is hard to even imagine in American terms. The New York Times reporter Sarah Lyall probably came as close as anyone when she wrote: "it is as if Captain Kangaroo, Dick Clark and Jerry Lewis" had all been accused of sex crimes dating back 30 or 40 years.
Britain is unique in Europe in having no statute of limitations for serious sexual offences. The average in the rest of Europe is 12 years; in the US, where such crimes are prosecuted by each state, the limit varies. In Arkansas and California, for example, charges have to be brought within three years; in New York and New Jersey there is no statute of limitations for sexual assault, but for sexual abuse the limit is five years; in Ohio the limit is 12 years. In the wake of the Jerry Sandusky scandal some states have moved to abolish their limits, however those are in the minority.
I've lived in London for nearly 20 years, but arrived too late in life to ever understand the appeal of Jimmy Savile, the weird, blond cigar-smoking imp who, lionised by the BBC in the months after his death in October 2011, has since been revealed as a monster who preyed on dozens, perhaps hundreds of victims. It was the outcry over Savile's crimes, which prompted Operation Yewtree, the police investigation into sex abuse whose targets so far also include pop star Gary Glitter, comedian Freddie Starr, DJ David Lee Travis and mega-publicist Max Clifford – some of them household names even in my household.
It is as if once the shield of celebrity that protected Savile had been breached, a vast cohort of victims who either had their accusations brushed aside or had a well-founded expectation of being silenced have suddenly regained their voices. Which has to be a good thing.
There has at times been something disturbing about the mounting hysteria in the British press, the toxic mix of web gossip, moral outrage, sexual panic and prurient posturing that has already accused at least one innocent man. If the British entertainment establishment's original sin was to dismiss the claims of the victims, the natural impulse is to shift the balance of belief – and, at least in the court of public opinion, the burden of proof. When the alleged crime took place 20, 30 or even 40 years ago, there is very little chance of any physical evidence surviving, yet Hall's case suggests that for some victims at least, justice delayed – even by 45 years – is better than no justice at all.
So where does that leave us? It is probably too much to hope that, whatever further revelations Operation Yewtree has in store, Britain begins a long-overdue national conversation about the culture of celebrity entitlement, sexist privilege, and reflexive deference which deprived so many not only of their youth but of their credibility. For the media, such a conversation, particularly if its ambit expanded from denouncing the BBC's seemingly chronic blindness concerning celebrity predators to the casual brutality of newsrooms and newsdesks, with their iron-clad hierarchy of "innocent" victims and habitual offenders, is bound to be uncomfortable.
But maybe we can at least ask ourselves some hard questions – not just about who to believe, and when, and how many allegations add up to a pattern of evidence. Maybe we can also talk honestly about the weird symbiosis between our obsession with royal reproduction and our outrage over celebrity sex. Or the way a public culture that only values women as sexual objects might encourage powerful men to treat women … as objects. Or even about how our purported horror at the sexual exploitation of children is belied by the programmes we watch and the products we buy – and what it might mean to allow children and teenagers some agency of their own, and what it would take to make a world where it felt safe for them to use it? Reported by guardian.co.uk 42 minutes ago.