It’s all a bit wordy and the jury react. Media Man grips his forehead, hiding his eyes – all the better to think about something else. Hilda gives a slow blink and fiddles with her necklace. The Callow Youth casts his eyes skywards, consumed with interest in the chandeliers that hang in the vault of the ceiling.
‘Thank you,’ Miss Webber says. ‘As this expert testimony is crucial to the prosecution case, I am concerned to ensure that the members of the jury fully understand your report and its implications.’
Professor Cabril gives a quick nod. She is the final witness for the prosecution, and the most important. Miss Webber must milk her for all she’s worth.
‘In my opening speech, members of the jury, I outlined for you the legal basis for this trial. Namely that Deborah Shelley faces a charge of murdering Neil Draper and that you will find her guilty or not guilty of that charge. You may find her not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter, due to diminished responsibility. This is the crux of the matter.’ Miss Webber turns back to her witness. The lawyer’s eyes are bright, her expression alert. She has an air of competence, of energy. This is what she does, and she does it well.
‘Professor Cabril, you say Ms Shelley enjoys a good overall standard of mental health.’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘And does her behaviour in the period immediately before her husband’s death show any deterioration of her mental health?’
‘Nothing of any great significance.’
‘Does her behaviour in the period after her husband’s death show any deterioration in her mental health?’
‘Nothing beyond the normal grieving process.’ A roll on the final r, a flourish.
‘In your expert opinion…’
I notice Dolly give a little huff. She doesn’t like all this expert business. Or maybe she’s already grasped the point and finds the repetition patronizing.
‘… is there any evidence other than her own version of events to suggest Ms Shelley was suffering from abnormality of mind when she administered a fatal overdose to Neil Draper?’
‘None at all.’ Complete confidence.
No shred of doubt. I’m holding my breath. The tension burns in my neck.
‘With your extensive experience, did you find any evidence that Deborah Shelley had impaired mental responsibility when she used a plastic bag to hasten her husband’s death?’
I don’t like to think of this. It makes me nauseous. Sophie bows her head and Adam sets his jaw. I force myself to keep looking ahead, then up to catch his eyes. I may regret what I have done but I will not be shamed. At last his gaze flicks my way and my pain softens a touch. He gives a wobbly grimace, trying for a smile.
Professor Cabril is answering: ‘Not at all. Her actions were those of a mentally responsible person.’
‘Professor Cabril.’ Miss Webber pauses, lowers her voice a touch, drawing us in. Her words are measured, solemn, laden with gravity. ‘When Deborah Shelley killed Neil Draper, was the balance of her mind disturbed?’
‘No. She was fine, healthy, responsible.’
It’s a neat last line. Succinct, deadly. The room is still, silent. The implication of her opinion hanging there, shrouding us all. Murder. My eyes are hot, my mouth dry. There’s a fizzy sensation at the back of my skull as if I might faint.
Quietly, with a reverential nod and a whispered, ‘Thank you’, Briony Webber leaves the floor.
It is Mr Latimer’s turn and he is on treacherous ground. He must attempt to discredit Professor Cabril’s opinion without compromising the jury’s view of the profession – for it won’t be long till his own expert shrink is trundled out for more of the same.
‘Pr-Pr-Professor Cabril. Your testimony here today is an opinion, is it fair to say, not a fact?’
‘Yes, an opinion based on facts.’
‘But an opinion all the same?’
‘Yes.’ She gives a tight smile.
‘And opinions, particularly opinions about human behaviour, may vary?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the jury here will have to try to decide which expert opinion best fits the rest of the evidence?’
I think of the trail of lies, stitched to my widow’s weeds, and shudder inside.
‘Please can you tell the court how Ms Shelley herself described her state of mind immediately before her husband’s death.’
Professor Cabril appears to fish for recollection. Mr Latimer is quick to prompt. ‘In your report, paragraph four on the first page. Please can you read that for us?’
‘‘‘Deborah Shelley reports feeling under great pressure. She states that she felt trapped into agreeing to help Neil but was very anxious about that agreement. She also reported panic attacks and insomnia.’’’
‘Panic attacks, anxiety, insomnia? Are these indicators of a healthy mental state?’ Mr Latimer could be scathing but he’s careful not to ridicule the witness.
‘No, but they should be taken in context.’ She takes a breath to expand, but Mr Latimer cuts her off.
‘I am keen that the jury should understand this apparent contradiction.’
The Cook smiles and glances at the Artist. He’s enjoying the jousting.
Professor Cabril lowers her shoulders, clasps her hands together, an unconscious attempt to regain equilibrium. ‘Deborah Shelley reported these symptoms but my opinion rests on her behaviour. Her actions were those of a coherent and fully responsible individual.’
And we all know actions speak louder…
‘That is your interpretation?’
‘Yes. I am not saying there were no stresses whatsoever. She was faced with a difficult situation but her actions – the research she carried out in preparation for the event, the careful planning, the collected way she behaved afterwards. This is hard to square with her own description of her state of mind at the time.’
I am a liar. Mr Latimer must navigate carefully. Here be monsters.
‘But another person,’ Mr Latimer says reasonably, ‘knowing how trapped Deborah Shelley felt, hearing of her panic attacks, her lack of sleep, her anxiety might formulate a different interpretation?’
‘They might,’ she allows.
‘They might deduce that Ms Shelley was driven to the brink by the appalling situation she found herself in. That, racked by anxiety and paralysed by panic attacks, she lost the ability to distinguish right from wrong. That she became disturbed to the point where she bowed to the pressure of her husband’s pleas. The husband she loved. A man she had been with for more than thirty years. Her husband of twenty-four years. They may well deduce that?’
‘They may,’ Professor Cabril says drily. The subtext: they’d be a fool if they did. ‘In my experience,’ she goes on, her dark eyes glinting, ‘people who commit acts of this nature while the balance of their mind is disturbed find it impossible to sustain normal behaviour for very long. Like a pressure cooker, the cracks are there-’
‘Professor Cabril.’ Mr Latimer tries to shut her up.
‘Let the witness finish,’ insists the judge.
‘Your Honour, my client’s liberty, her reputation, her freedom are at stake here,’ Mr Latimer says forcefully.
‘Let the witness finish,’ the judge repeats, frowning.
‘Your Honour-’
‘Mr Latimer!’ The judge slaps him down. I sense the gathering clouds, the swell of disaster dark on the horizon.
Dolores Cabril inclines her head by way of appreciation, ‘If Deborah Shelley had been as vulnerable as she reported then it is my opinion that she would have swiftly broken down after the event. She would not have had the resilience to stand any scrutiny of her behaviour, to maintain her composure, and certainly would not withstand the police questioning she underwent. The need to confess, the relief she would seek from her situation, would have been paramount.’
‘In your opinion,’ Mr Latimer repeats. It is the best he can do and it is nowhere near good enough. I feel cheated, stuck in sinking sand with the waters rising. He walks back to his table and sits as Briony Webber leaps up for a last bite of the cherry. Mr Latimer has tried to introduce the spectre of doubt and she is keen to repair any damage.