Part Seventy-Seven
When everyone had left, George began gathering their papers together. "Well done," Jo said to her gratefully. "Oh, the pleasure was all mine, believe me," George replied with a broad smile. "You know, John once asked me why I'd gone into law, and gave me one of his holier than thou speeches about fighting for justice to be the finest of human aspirations. But I think this morning proves precisely why I followed in Daddy's footsteps. It's the fight I aspire to, the intellectual battle where everything can either be won or lost in a matter of words. That cut and thrust of wily human intellect, that's what gets me fired up, making me feel as though I can achieve anything if I try hard enough." "I'm sorry," Jo said regretfully, feeling as though she had betrayed the effort George had put into this case all along. "Darling," George told her gently. "I wish you'd talked to me, rather than drinking too much. If I'm honest, I didn't want you to take on this case in the first place, but that doesn't mean I won't be there to listen if you want me to be." "I know," Jo replied flatly, feeling as though all her mental energy had somehow seeped away. "What I suggest you do for today," George went on a little more firmly. "Is to go home, go to sleep, and come back tomorrow. Your current state isn't going to do this case any favours if any more attention is drawn to it, and it's not as if I can do any damage without you this afternoon. It's only Brian questioning Connie Beauchamp, and if there's anything to object to, believe me I'll be up on my feet before they know what's hit them." "I know you will," Jo said with a small smile, thinking that whilst she might previously have doubted George's ability to be part of this case, now she really couldn't do without her.
When Jo had driven gratefully away in her car, George stood outside smoking a cigarette. When Yvonne and Roisin appeared, George briefly wondered what excuse she could give them for Jo's absence. "Was that Jo I saw driving away?" Yvonne asked, digging for her own nicotine fix. "Yes," George said after taking a drag. "She came into court with one of those twenty-four hour bugs this morning, so I've sent her home." Yvonne scrutinized her closely. "Yeah?" She said disbelievingly. "And I'm the Lord Chief Justice. What's really wrong with her?" Slightly astounded at how quickly Yvonne had managed to see through her, George hesitated. "Yvonne, I'm sure Jo would be here if she could be," Roisin said understandingly, seeing a clear conflict of interest in George's eyes. "Go and see her after court," George told Yvonne quietly. "And she might just tell you." "Okay," Yvonne agreed mildly. "And hey, you did brilliantly this morning." "Well, let's hope I can come up with the goods this afternoon."
When John had been informed by Coope that George had sent Jo home, he asked to see her. "Without prosecuting counsel present?" Coope queried. "Yes," John said firmly, and when George was summoned immediately to his presence, she stood before him wondering what to tell him. "I suppose you're wondering why Jo isn't here," She said, wanting to get in first before he started asking awkward questions. "Yes," John replied mildly, seeing a look of worried concern in George's face. "Don't forget, I had Jo right in my line of vision for the entirety of this morning," He told her. "And if I didn't know better, I would say she looked hung over." "She was," George replied, slightly relieved that she didn't have to try and hide it from him. "Any special reason?" John enquired a little guardedly, remembering that other time when Jo had become incredibly drunk whilst at the digs. "I think this case is getting to her a little more than usual," George said evasively. "Already?" John said in slight alarm. "There's almost a fortnight to go yet." "I know," George said worriedly. "Which means that both of us are going to have to support her through every minute of it."
When court reconvened that afternoon, and consultant cardio thoracic surgeon Connie Beauchamp moved to take the stand, both John and Monty suppressed a broad smirk of appreciation. From her short, black, curly hair, down her gloriously proportioned figure, to her endlessly long legs, she was perfect. Her eyes were the most intriguing shade of violet, not something either man had often seen. She was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a white silk blouse and the skirt midway between hip and knee. The clerk of the court was heard to stammer slightly as he invited her to take the oath. George scrutinized her from head to foot, and immediately took in the inner strength of this woman, telling her that Connie Beauchamp wasn't going to be something of a push over as Sam Ryan had been. Connie Beauchamp wouldn't go down without a fight, making sure along the way to take someone else down with her.
"Mrs. Beauchamp," Brian began with extreme politeness ladening his tone. "Please would you explain to the court, precisely what medical condition you found Henry Mills to be in when you first examined him?" When Connie spoke, her deep, clear, highly cultured voice made every ear stand to full attention. "I first examined Henry Mills on the seventh of June last year, as he had been referred to me by his GP. Henry Mills presented with a severe cough, extreme lethargy and significant breathing difficulties after any form of mild exercise. I listened to his chest, and obtained x-rays and a CT scan." "Copies of which are in your bundle, My Lord," Brian interrupted. "Henry Mills had a malignant tumour on his right lung, which had rapidly spread to his lymph nodes and the chest wall. I performed a minor exploratory operation, to ascertain if there was any possibility of removing either the tumour or its secondary growths, but I found this to be a simple matter of open and close. The cancer had progressed to the ribs surrounding his pleural cavity, meaning that it was in the terminal stages of progression."
"What were the treatment options that you considered were open to him?" "As I had ascertained during the exploratory operation, surgery wasn't a viable option for him. Also, as the cancer had already developed secondary tumours and attached itself to the skeleton and the lymph nodes, both chemotherapy and radiotherapy would not have reduced the tumours enough to make either of them worthwhile options. I am sorry to say that the only option left open to us, was to provide Henry Mills with palliative care and increasing levels of pain relief as time went by." "In your professional estimation, how long did Henry Mills have to live?" "With invasive forms of cancer, and especially lung cancer, there is no designated timeline for the individual concerned. If Henry Mills remained relatively inactive, his breathing was not yet impaired, and he was also not yet in any real pain. He didn't smoke and neither did his wife, and he didn't have any other major health problems to complicate things. I would have given Henry Mills roughly six months from the time of diagnosis."
"Mrs. Beauchamp, in your dealings with Henry Mills, what did you perceive to be his general demeanour?" "He was quiet, polite, and somewhat philosophical with regards to his illness. He was clearly devoted to his wife," Connie said a little less clinically, the thought obviously coming straight from the heart. "He was more concerned about the difficulty she might have with caring for him at home, than he was about his own discomfort." Glancing over at the dock, John saw that there were tears running freely down Barbara's cheeks at Connie's words. "Mrs. Mills," John said to Barbara. "Would you like a moment to recover yourself? I appreciate that this is very painful for you." "No, thank you, My Lord," Barbara replied gratefully. "Mrs. Beauchamp," John said turning his gaze back on Connie. "Did Henry Mills express any opinion to you at the realisation that he was going to die?" "He said that it was God's will, My Lord," Connie told him a little bleakly. "And he pointed out to his wife that they still had some considerable time left together."
"Mrs. Beauchamp," Brian once again took over. "How did Henry Mills act around his wife?" "As I have previously said, he clearly loved her, and I don't think there was anything he wouldn't have done for his wife. He was always polite to her, and she to him. If I hadn't known better, I suspect I would have regarded them as a couple who had been married for thirty years or more, not merely the two that they were together." "Did Henry Mills ever give you reason to consider that he might be about to take his own life?" "Certainly not," Connie replied firmly. "Whenever I talked to Henry Mills about his illness and what we could or more often could not do for him, his attitude was calm and practical, both accompanied by a philosophical acceptance that I wish I could see in all my patients." "Why so certain?" John put in without hesitation. "My Lord, at the start or at least the diagnosis of his illness, Henry Mills accepted that he was going to die, and all he appeared to want was to spend as much time with his wife as possible. I am not a fool," She stated firmly. "I know that the news that he was about to leave his wife prematurely shocked and upset him greatly, but he plainly accepted that his life was no longer in his own hands. Given how much he thought of his wife, and how he longed to spend every precious minute with her, I find it impossible to believe that Henry Mills would even have considered killing himself." Her violet eyes flashed at this assertion, briefly showing her inner anger that someone had forcefully taken this man's life.
"Mrs. Beauchamp, what was your general impression of Barbara Mills?" "Reserved, polite, eager to do anything to help her husband," Connie replied thoughtfully, glancing over at where Barbara sat in between two prison officers. "Was she a loving wife?" Brian asked, also glancing over at the woman who had played the harpsichord only eight months ago. "Yes, I think so," Connie said a little uncertainly. "Though one can't always put an estimation on such things. One observation I can make is that they appeared to be a perfectly matched couple, entirely devoted to the continued care and happiness of the other, something I suppose we all aspire to." There was a short, emotionally charged silence after this softer response from Connie, making everyone who was there for Barbara, wonder why life had to be taken so prematurely.
"Is it common, Mrs. Beauchamp, for husbands or wives to care for their terminally ill spouses at home?" "It isn't uncommon," Connie clarified for him. "It can depend on a number of factors: how easy or difficult the patient's pain management is; how capable and competent the caring spouse may be; and what other commitments such as children that the caring spouse may have to deal with. In a case such as Barbara and Henry Mills, it isn't unusual for a terminally ill patient to want to spend their last days or weeks at home, and for their spouse to be educated in the administering of pain relief and other types of medication." "Last of all, Mrs. Beauchamp, in your considered professional opinion, would you have expected Henry Mills to die when he did?" "No," Connie replied firmly, staring at the court stenographer until she'd written it down. "Henry Mills was lighter of spirit than many of my extremely healthy patients. He had roughly six months to live, and he knew what he wanted to do with that time. He had his wife, Barbara, to care for him, and his pain and other difficulties were being successfully managed at home, with regular visits to the hospital whilst he was able to make them, and visits from Professor Khan to his home when he couldn't. As far as his medical condition was concerned, Henry Mills was made as comfortable as was humanly possible. I do not accept the view that he killed himself, because in spite of his having terminal lung cancer, Henry Mills saw that he still had everything in the world to live for."