I must have slept because I wake at six, my head feeling fuzzy and my skin chilled, covered with goose-bumps. I get ready quietly; the other women still have an hour before roll call. I cannot face any breakfast but drink a little milk. Even that turns to curds in my mouth. The prison officer takes me over to the gatehouse. I am strip-searched again.
It is only just light as the van arrives at Minshull Street. Ms Gleason comes in to see me in the court cell. She has coffee in one of those enormous polystyrene beakers, which she leaves with the guard. Enough caffeine to strip half your stomach lining.
When she asks me how I am, I shake my head. She places her hand on my shoulder. The touch is such a comfort.
That’s something I crave: physical intimacy. Not the sex, though if Neil were raised from the dead I wouldn’t think twice. No, it’s the everyday contact, the hugs and pats, kisses and strokes, the handshakes. They shrank when Neil died and disappeared almost completely when they locked me up.
In the closing rounds, Briony Webber gets to go first.
‘Members of the jury, British law does not permit us to assist in the taking of life, no matter what the individual circumstances. So-called mercy killing is illegal under our law. It is murder. That is why Deborah Shelley lied so brazenly: to her children, to the ambulance crew, to the police, to Neil’s GP. She lied before the murder and after. She is lying to you now. Don’t be fooled. She knew that what she was doing was wrong. She knew it was murder. Ask yourselves this…’ She pauses and I swallow. My view wavers, the light dims, the jurors on their benches swim closer, then retreat.
‘Why did Ms Shelley change her story? She changed it because she got caught. Because the police evidence, the forensic evidence, demonstrated beyond any doubt that Neil Draper died an unnatural death. Since that point everything Deborah Shelley has said has been with one end in mind – that she get away scot free. That she get away with murder.’
She swings around and her black robe billows out, then she strides over to her table and examines her papers. But not for long.
‘My learned friend is arguing that Ms Shelley lost use of her reason under pressure of the strain of her husband’s illness and conceded to his wishes. I ask you to consider this: there were ten weeks between her agreeing to his request and carrying it out. Ten weeks during which time she competently set about preparing for the event, gathering information, stock-piling morphine, practising her lies. You have heard Ms Shelley’s account of the terrible events of June the fifteenth. But consider this: Neil Draper was still alive when Deborah Shelley pulled a plastic bag over his head and held it tight, hell bent on finishing what she had started. If she really was as distressed and ill as the defence claims, wouldn’t you expect her at that point, with her husband unconscious, when she tells us she was panicking, to collapse in defeat? To cry for help? No. Not only did she hold the bag over Neil’s head while he fought to breathe but she then hid everything – the bag, the evidence of the drugs – and set about creating a sham, a charade for the whole world.’
Mute and mutinous, I listen to her singing my sins, feel the breath stutter in and out of my windpipe, the beat of blood in my ears.
‘Deborah Shelley is an intelligent woman, a university graduate, a businesswoman. She knew how to seek help, she was articulate, financially secure, she knew the law, she knew…’ Miss Webber turns and stares at me, nodding, calling me a liar. I will not bow my head. ‘… yet she chose to go along with her husband’s wishes. Her intentions may have been honourable but her actions were not. What she did may have been out of loyalty but her motive was sadly mistaken. She murdered her husband. Neil Draper’s mother wants justice for her son. Neil Draper’s daughter, who has spoken so bravely here in court, needs to know that you will recognize her courage and heed the truth.
‘The victim is not here. He cannot speak and tell us what transpired. If he were I have no doubt that he would tell you he begged his wife to help end his life. No one disputes that. What is in dispute is whether Deborah Shelley knew what she was doing. Do not be fooled by her lies. She has shown she can be fluent in her explanations, but no matter how smoothly she tells it, her account is a fabric of falsehoods and deceit. I believe there can be only one verdict returned on the basis of the evidence you have heard. And that is guilty, guilty of murder.’
Miss Webber returns slowly to her seat and the room is still.
Mr Latimer takes a sip of water and gets to his feet. When he speaks his voice is soft, just audible and he sounds regretful.
‘When Neil Draper asked his wife to help him die, she refused. He asked her again months afterwards and a second time she said no. But in April last year, when he asked her a third time, Deborah had become seriously ill. Her life was unravelling. The depression that had numbed her in the months after her mother’s death returned with a vengeance. She had no faith in anti-depressants. She didn’t believe anyone could help. Deborah was unable to sleep, her son Adam was a constant worry, known to be suffering from cannabis-induced psychosis. Deborah herself was having paralysing panic attacks. She could no longer hold everything together. The child of two depressives, one of whom took his own life while she was still small, Deborah had fought hard to cope. It’s what women do, as mothers, wives, workers. They soldier on, they cope with crises, and they clear up the messes.’
It’s a lovely, generous speech, and the jury are captivated.
‘But Deborah could no longer manage. Her savage attack on her neighbour is testament to how disturbed she was becoming. W-w-weakened and terrified of what lay ahead, Deborah was unable to resist her husband any more. You have heard her say that she thought it might not happen even as she hoarded the drugs, that it might not happen even as she planned what to say if anyone grew suspicious, that it might not happen even as she poured Neil his last glass of wine. Her grasp on reality was loosening. Like a child who will hide behind his hands and imagine he can’t be seen.’ He dips his head for emphasis; the scrappy wool gives a little shiver, like a stiffened, shrunken lamb’s tail.
‘When Deborah gave Neil those doses of morphine, when she then suffocated him, it was because she was literally out of her mind. She could no longer tell right from wrong. She loved him and wanted to help him but she knew that by helping him she would be committing murder. The fear of what would happen added to her mental collapse.’
I hold myself tight, bound up, hands grasping each other, mouth rigid, frightened of flying apart, of unravelling before them.
‘Deborah Shelley was sick. She could no longer be held responsible for her actions. She acted while she was unfit to judge. Now you must judge her. The burden of proof is on the prosecution, which means that they must prove to you beyond all reasonable doubt that Deborah Shelley murdered her husband, fully aware of what she was doing. Ask yourselves: are you one hundred per cent certain that this was the case? One hundred per cent,’ he says again. ‘When she lay beside her husband on that early summer day, when she told him she loved him, was she fully aware of what she was doing? In the midst of the horrendous pressure she had been under, was she still completely responsible for her actions? If you have any doubts you must find Deborah not guilty of murder. Deborah Shelley was not flouting the law, she is not an advocate of mercy killing. She is a woman who, in the height of her sickness, got swept along by her dying husband’s pleas. She did wrong and has admitted it. All we ask now is that you bring your intelligence, your common sense and your humanity to consider the evidence. And find Deborah Shelley innocent of the charge of murder.’
The judge has the last word. He must interpret the law to the jury.