Cath Staincliffe - The Kindest Thing

‘That’s not what I said,’ he barks, and flushes, angry. It is not a pleasant sight. I feel embarrassed. How will the jury take it?

‘Was the balance of Ms Shelley’s mind disturbed when she agreed to assist her husband?’

‘I believe so. From her account, it is my opinion that Deborah was under great pressure and agreed to placate her husband. Had she felt stronger she would not have agreed. She hoped it would never come to pass.’

‘And when she set off to research methods of killing someone, scouring the Internet for deadly information, when she plotted to hoard drugs and lied to their GP, was that to placate Neil? Was the balance of her mind disturbed then?’

‘She was confused-’

‘I certainly am,’ Miss Webber says swiftly, and some people laugh. ‘Please, Mr Petty, answer the question.’

‘It is often the case,’ he sounds petulant, his Scottish accent suddenly echoes with peevish grievance, ‘that a person can be suffering mental disturbance yet appear to function quite well. I believe she went along with it, still hoping it would never happen,’ he says stiffly.

‘So she was sane, then?’ Don Petty frowns at that and Miss Webber adds, ‘She was mentally responsible during those weeks?’

‘No. Mental health fluctuates as does physical health. It is a spectrum, not a fixed state.’

‘Exactly,’ pipes Briony Webber, ‘quite fluid – certainly in this case. Seems to come and go to suit the occasion.’

‘Miss Webber,’ the judge growls.

‘Withdrawn.’

I catch a look between Mr Latimer and Ms Gleason. Dismay. My cheeks burn. Oh, God. This is the battle of the shrinks and Don Petty is supposed to be my champion. I want to stand up and yell at him, grab hold of him and slap him into shape.

‘And was Ms Shelley mentally responsible when she performed the fatal act?’ Performed: there’s a pornographic slur in the way she articulates the word. I am beginning to tremble. I stare at Don Petty, willing him to fight for me. To show them how it was – or, rather, how we want it to appear.

‘No, she was no longer mentally responsible.’

‘When did the change occur?’ Miss Webber demands. ‘That morning, the week before?’

‘It is my opinion that the weeks leading up to that day saw an increasing deterioration in Deborah’s mental health. The evening before June the fifteenth was the tipping point, when Neil named the day. The balance of her mind was so disturbed that she could no longer be held responsible for her behaviour.’

‘Really?’ she says drily. ‘And after the murder of her husband did not Ms Shelley perform perfectly well, fooling family, friends, medical staff, even the police until her lies were exposed?’ Now she makes me an actor, all mask and makeup, mouthing my lines by rote. ‘I put to you an alternative view – that Ms Shelley is a clever and calculating woman who knows her only chance of evading a prison sentence is to spin this tissue of lies and fancies. Asking this jury to believe that on April the third she lost all reason and said yes to Neil Draper, that ten weeks later on June the fifteenth, again all sense deserted her as she helped him die. Yet she was able to recover amazingly quickly, hiding the evidence, trotting out a story, covering up the murder of her husband.’

‘Is there a question for the witness?’ Mr Latimer complains, the tail on his scrappy wig shivering furiously.

‘Do you have children, Mr Petty?’ asks Miss Webber.

‘Sorry?’

‘Is this relevant?’ Mr Latimer demands.

The judge nods for Miss Webber to continue.

‘You have any children?’

‘Yes, two.’

‘Keep you awake at night?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Broken sleep affects most parents, would you say?’

‘It’s not my area of-’ He’s beginning to fudge.

She cuts him off. ‘Oh, come on, we all know what it’s like. New parents barely get any sleep but they don’t become unbalanced, they don’t lose the capacity to distinguish right from wrong. Yet you claim that Ms Shelley’s insomnia left her so sleep deprived it made her sick?’

‘It’s a contributing factor.’

‘So you say.’ Her retort drips sarcasm. ‘Another factor was the strain of the problems with Adam Shelley: his mental problems, his drug abuse.’

‘That’s right.’ His words are clipped, defensive now, mealy-mouthed.

‘And Adam had been a voluntary hospital patient on occasion in 2008? And had received counselling?’

‘Yes.’

‘But since then he had been settled at home?’

I see Mr Latimer close his eyes slowly: he knows this is heading nowhere good.

‘That’s right.’

‘There had not been any serious incident with Adam in the year leading up to his father’s death? Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, it would appear that the situation with Adam had improved significantly, that Ms Shelley might have taken consolation from the fact that things were so much better, that there was much less pressure in that quarter. In effect a respite? Would you agree?’

I close my own eyes for a moment, shake my head a little. She is demolishing my defence, peck by peck. I hear Don Petty clear his throat. ‘It may appear like that but the reality of living with a child with these sort of issues creates long-term stress.’

She ignores him. She has made her point and moves on. ‘We have already heard that Ms Shelley did not see her own doctor in 2009 or ask for any help. That is your understanding?’

‘She used the MNDA helpline.’

‘Though she did not call them to discuss Neil’s request or ask for help in those final ten weeks? Is that right?’

He pauses but there’s no way out. ‘It is.’

I can see Jane, her face set, wary. She too must feel that any sympathy in the room has melted away. I do not dare survey the jury. Briony Webber walks to the benches.

‘And we have heard that only once in her life did Deborah Shelley ever seek professional help for depression, in…’ she makes a show of checking her notes ‘… 1993. Sixteen years previously. No sign of depression for sixteen years.’ She weighs each word, heavy with import. ‘Do you agree?’

‘It’s possible to have the illness but not seek help.’

‘And you believe that’s true of Deborah Shelley?’ The subtext is ‘poor misguided fool’.

‘I do.’

‘So we have a woman who you claim lost all reason on June the fifteenth and acted while the balance of her mind was disturbed. What about when she researched those very methods, scouring the Internet for websites about suicide? When she went over with her husband how she would conduct herself after his death?’ Her voice gains volume, filling the court, the catalogue of my misdeeds bouncing back from the high ceilings, the far corners. ‘When she planned with him what she would say if any suspicions were aroused? Was the balance of her mind disturbed on each of those occasions?’

I chance a glance towards the jury. Alice, resplendent with a black hairband and strange blue pinafore dress, bows her head, studying her hands. Discomfited or disillusioned.

‘In my opinion the preparatory acts made by Deborah Shelley were on a par with the act itself – they were carried out under enormous emotional pressure and in the desperate hope that they would be superfluous at the end of the day.’

‘And after the deed was done?’

‘I have already said-’ Don Petty complains.

‘I would like you to repeat your assertion, for the sake of the jury, because quite frankly it beggars belief.’

‘Badgering the witness!’ Mr Latimer shouts. He has gone very pale and his lips are taut with displeasure.

‘Your Honour,’ says Miss Webber, ‘this speaks to the very core of the defence. I must be able to test the witness rigorously.’