Part Seventy-Six
When George arrived at court on the Tuesday morning, after giving Kay a lift to work at St. Mary's, she went into the ladies' to touch up her make up. Already in there and standing at the sink, was Jo, holding a paper cup of something that fizzed. "Good morning," George said, giving Jo a smile and kissing her cheek, wanting to make up for the previous day's argument. "Is it?" Jo responded dully. Glancing into the cup, George asked, "Is that Alka-Seltzer?" "Yes," Jo told her simply. Looking deep into Jo's eyes, George saw nothing but tiredness and strain. "You look hung over," She finally acknowledged. "Would it be worth the effort to try and convince you otherwise?" "No," George assured her. "It wouldn't. Jo, getting drunk in the middle of a trial, that just isn't like you." Jo laughed mirthlessly. "That's all you know," She said, after which she took a swig of the dissolved Alka-Seltzer, making a face at the taste. "Are you fit to cross-examine Professor Ryan, and make her regret the day she did in fact become a professor?" "I will be," Jo half-heartedly assured her, not sounding at all convinced.
However, when everyone gathered in court just before ten o'clock, Jo didn't look any healthier than before. Simply hoping that Jo would be up to the job, George didn't comment any further on Jo's appearance. When Sam again took the stand, Jo rose slowly to her feet, cleared her throat, and seemed to muster every scrap of energy she had left after the night before.
"Professor Ryan," She began carefully, trying to lull her into a false sense of security. "Precisely how certain are you, that Henry Mills couldn't have injected himself with the Diamorphine?" Sam looked at her quizzically. "Given his assumed general state of incapacity, he was terminally ill don't forget, I very much doubt that he would have had the strength necessary to acquire the syringe full of Morphine." "Ah," Jo said with a sly smile, reminding both John and George of a vixen who had lured a rabbit into its lair. "But can you actually prove, that it wasn't Henry Mills who administered the injection?" "In my professional opinion..." Sam insisted, but George interrupted. "We didn't ask for your professional opinion, which I've no doubt is considerable," She pointed out acidly. "We asked for indisputable, irreversible proof." There was a long, awkward silence. "No," Sam said regretfully. "I can't prove with absolute certainty that Henry Mills didn't administer his own injection." Brian glared, George smirked, and Jo sat down, looking more ill than George had ever seen her. Realising that she would now have to take over, George rose hurriedly to her feet, picked up Jo's notes, though she barely glanced at them as she moved to cross-examine Sam.
"Professor Ryan," George began silkily. "Allow me for one moment, to place a situation before you. Here we have Henry Mills, who was, as you pointed out, in the final stages of terminal lung cancer. He was naturally bedridden, and incapable of caring for himself, requiring the almost constant attention of his wife, Barbara. My client being the organised and practical person that she undoubtedly is, had obtained the knowledge necessary in order to operate her husband's syringe driver, so that she would be in a position to administer his medication at home. Also as a result of my client's wanting to be prepared for every eventuality, she had filled a new syringe in advance, ready to replace the used up Morphine in the syringe driver at the correct time. This, pre-filled syringe, was placed, just like every other before it, on the bedside table, next to the syringe driver, and therefore well within reach of Henry Mills' hand. Taking all these facts into consideration, what would you say is now your professional opinion?" The air positively hummed, every eye and ear awaiting Sam's response. "Taking all that into consideration," She said bleakly, realising that the prosecution clearly hadn't known as much as they'd thought they had. "Then yes, it might just have been possible for Henry Mills to inject himself, if the syringe was well within his reach." "So, I will ask you again," George continued mercilessly. "Can you prove that Henry Mills didn't kill himself?" "No, I can't," Sam replied dismally, seeing the case slipping away from the prosecution as though on skis.
"Now, I would like you to enlighten the court, as to your opinion on quite a different possibility." George had begun to pace along the length of the silk's bench, lightly flicking the sheaf of Jo's notes against her thigh. "Considering that Henry Mills' cancer was so far advanced, could the cancer itself have been the actual cause of his death, and not the overdose of Morphine?" "I don't think so," Sam replied a little hesitantly. "Professor Ryan, are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure that this wasn't possible, or do you have even the slightest of doubts?" "With cancer as advanced as in the case of Henry Mills," Sam was forced to admit. "Anything is possible." "Please allow me to clarify this," George continued. "Are you in fact saying, that Henry Mills' cancer, could have been what killed him?" "As I said a moment ago, anything is possible."
"Ms Channing," John interrupted when Sam had finished speaking. "Do you have to pace back and forth in front of me like a stalking cat?" "Just keeping myself slim and beautiful, My Lord," George quipped back, her continual movement allowing her mind free rein to thoroughly take this woman out. A chorus of laughter came from the public gallery, as well as a slightly pained smile from Jo. "Professor Ryan," George began again, moving gradually closer to the kill. "When your fingerprints expert examined the hypodermic syringe, presumed to have contained the Morphine with which Henry Mills was injected, what did he find?" "I believe he found only one set of fingerprints on the syringe, those of Henry Mills," Sam answered, knowing precisely what was coming. "And why did neither you, nor the prosecuting counsel for that matter, once allude to this during your original evidence?" "Would that not be a question more appropriate for prosecuting counsel to answer, Ms Channing?" John asked thoughtfully. "I don't especially care which one of them gives me an answer, My Lord," George told him sweetly. "As long as somebody does." "Would you care to enlighten us, Mr. Cantwell?" John asked him smoothly, knowing he wouldn't. "I think I shall leave that to the witness, My Lord," Brian answered evasively. "Very well," John replied a little exasperatedly. "Please continue, Professor Ryan." "I didn't allude to the issue of the fingerprints, because I was not invited to during yesterday afternoon's session," Sam told George, with just as much underlying bitterness covered by the sweet icing of professional etiquette. "And why, do you suppose, you were not invited to give an opinion on this during your examination yesterday?" George continued ruthlessly, not remotely willing to let this one go. "I suspect the result wouldn't have done the prosecution's case any favours," Sam said with a slight smile, realising that George had if not her, definitely Brian Cantwell over a barrel on this one.
"Professor Ryan, please could you explain for the benefit of the jury, precisely what a syringe driver is and how it works?" "A syringe driver is an electric pump, roughly half the size of a lap top computer. It is connected to the patient via an intravenous canula, usually situated in a vein in either the hand or the elbow. The pump is programmed to administer a dose at specific intervals, as is the case with a drug such as Morphine, or it can drip other medications such as Heparin on a continuous flow." "Therefore, would it have been remotely possible for Henry Mills to administer the Morphine to himself via the syringe driver?" "Unless he had been specifically taught to use the syringe driver, as I am assuming Barbara Mills was, no, he would not have been able to do this." "Professor Ryan, if you had been in Henry Mills' position, needing to take that desperate step of overdosing on Diamorphine, precisely where would you have chosen to inject yourself with such a lethal drug?" "Given that Henry Mills would not have had the knowledge of how to disconnect the syringe driver from the intravenous canula, an intra-muscular injection in his thigh would have been the obvious choice." "Thank you for your time, Professor Ryan, I have no further questions for you."
"Do you wish to come back, Mr. Cantwell?" John asked, thinking that George had managed to make her case already. "No, My Lord," Brian said dismally, fervently praying that Connie Beauchamp would have better luck that afternoon. "My Lord," George put in before John could continue. "I have a matter to discuss with you that should not be gone into before the jury." "Yes, I think I know what's coming, Ms Channing," John said resignedly. "Members of the jury, if you wouldn't mind." As they filed out, George glanced over at Jo. She was sitting with her chin resting on her hand, watching George with a mixture of relief, pride and slight astonishment. When she saw George looking over at her, she smiled.
When the door had closed behind the retreating jury, George raised her point. "My Lord, I believe that there is no case to answer." "Don't be ridiculous," Brian commented none too quietly. "My Lord," George continued. "The evidence that Professor Ryan has given this morning was without doubt in favour of my client, no matter how much the prosecution wishes to deny it." "She has a point, Mr. Cantwell," John informed him. "Though I am loathed at this early stage to abandon the case, purely on the evidence of one witness." "But my Lord," George persisted. "Ms Channing, we will continue, this afternoon, and see what else the prosecution has to offer. Find as many holes in the evidence of the second witness as you have done this morning, and I may reconsider. Court is adjourned." Before either Brian or Jo could rise respectfully to their feet, he had left through the door behind the Judge's bench. "I think you lost that one, don't you, Brian?" George asked him sweetly. "You just wait till I get Connie Beauchamp on the stand," he promised her. "Then your client won't know what's hit her." "Oh, we know all about Connie Beauchamp," George said silkily. "She's got more skeletons in her cupboard than you could ever dream of."