‘The black or the blue?’ I asked David, waving a trouser suit in either hand.
Squinting at me, my husband croaked, ‘They look identical to me.’
‘The black one then,’ I decided, slipping the other hanger back into my wardrobe.
He rolled over while I carried on getting dressed. A flutter of nerves danced through my stomach. I sprayed a halo of perfume around my body and crept over to David, who had fallen fast asleep again. I kissed his cheek and he stirred. ‘Good luck, you’ll be fine.’
I hoped I would be. It should just have been a formality that I needed to get through, but I was so nervous. David’s words, as always, had a calming effect on me.
I listened to Classic FM all the way into London, the sound of the beautiful music soothing my soul.
Despite setting off early to beat the rush-hour traffic, it was really difficult to find a parking space. I circled several times before I found one, and with every lap my anxiety cranked up a notch. I couldn’t be late.
I stepped out into the bright sunshine, ironing the creases on my trousers with my hand, and looked up.
But that morning’s view wasn’t the towering walls of HMP Wormwood Scrubs. I was in a tree-lined street of semi-detached houses, in the affluent area of Fulham, West London.
In twenty minutes I was due to give evidence at the Coroner’s Court. Another wave of anxiety rolled through me. I had to get a move on; I’d parked miles away.
I was soon out of breath, and my heart was pounding as l looked left and right along the busy main road.
‘Come on, come on,’ I hissed at the traffic lights, impatient to cross.
I glanced at my watch again. I hated being late.
I saw a clearing in the traffic and took my chances.
I sprinted across the road, but the heel of my shoe caught in my trousers and I tripped up, falling flat onto the hard concrete.
I looked up and, to my horror, a motorcycle was zipping around the corner. I braced myself for impact, but the roaring of the engine turned to a purr as it pulled over beside me.
‘Are you okay?’ the man on the bike asked, flicking up his visor as he dismounted to help me onto my feet.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you’ I said, feeling deeply embarrassed. My knees and hands were throbbing as I hobbled to the side of the road.
I thanked the man for being so kind and continued on my way, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity by straightening my jacket and dusting off my trousers. The shock of the fall had left me feeling even more shaky and anxious. Coupled with the adrenaline from running late, I was a total bag of nerves. I checked my hands for cuts and noticed they were trembling.
‘Deep breath,’ I said to myself as I walked towards the entrance of West London Coroner’s Court.
It was an ugly red-brick building, which seemed out of place located in the middle of a quiet residential area of pretty houses.
It reminded me of the swimming baths I used to go to when I was little. An equally flustered-looking man was having a last few puffs on his cigarette on the steps. I wondered if he was a member of the deceased’s family. I gave him a nod and then pushed my way through the big black doors that led inside.
The whitewashed corridor was a hive of activity. Solicitors and barristers were milling around. Everyone was looking very serious and official, carrying files of paperwork. There was a small group of smartly dressed people hovering by the door to court one, speaking in hushed tones. I wasn’t sure who they were. Perhaps family. Or worse, journalists.
I searched the crowd for a friendly face, but she found me first.
‘Amanda!’ My boss, Karen, waved.
‘It’s been delayed by fifteen minutes.’ She noticed my flustered state. ‘You look like you could do with a coffee, are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘I just took a bit of a tumble on the way here. I have been dreading today, and hardly slept all night fretting about it.’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ Karen reassured me.
I was required to give evidence in court following the death of a man in Wormwood Scrubs about eighteen months previously. He had died in the FNC, and I was the only doctor who had seen him.
Suddenly the court door opened – our cue to go in.
‘It won’t take long,’ Karen said as we queued to enter.
‘I certainly hope not,’ I said. ‘I feel so anxious I can hardly think straight.’
There had been nothing remarkable about Daniel Craven’s behaviour when he had walked into Reception that night, dragging his big bag of belongings.
He was polite and friendly, but the thing I most remembered about him was that, despite looking very dishevelled, he was wearing a smart designer jacket. Somehow the two just didn’t seem to marry up.
It wasn’t Daniel’s first time in prison. One of the officers, Bill, recognised him. The two of them chatted away as if they were old mates, while I finished writing up my notes. I joined in the end of the conversation, remarking to Bill about the lovely jacket Daniel was wearing, which seemed to please him, as a big smile spread across his face and he proudly announced that he had bought it in a charity shop the previous week.
He told me he didn’t have any illnesses that he knew of, he wasn’t a drug user, and he wasn’t on any medication. It was a little challenging at times to get a straight answer out of him, as he tended to go off on a tangent and talk about random things, but he certainly wasn’t acting in an unusual way, and gave no cause for concern.
So you can imagine my surprise when at 9 a.m. the next morning, just as I was about to head off to the Seg to do the rounds, I heard alarm bells screeching and officers stampeding along the corridors shouting ‘Code Blue!’
Daniel’s dead body had been discovered, curled up around the lavatory in his cell.
Reports from staff working in the First Night Centre stated that he had grown increasingly agitated as the evening had worn on, so much so that they suspected he may have been smoking spice.
But the toxicology report didn’t find a trace of any drug in his system. I wondered whether he may have had a stroke, a fit, a heart attack, but it was none of those either. It took months for the autopsy report to come back and, when it did, it stated that no cause of death had been identified.
It was a total mystery, and the first time in all my years since qualifying in medicine that I had encountered a death in which the cause could not to be identified.
*
I sat on the wooden bench, my legs crossed, my hands planted on my knees, waiting for my name to be called. The room was high-ceilinged, wood-panelled and brightly lit. In front of me was the witness box where all the people involved in the inquiry would take it in turns to give their accounts of what had happened that night.
Opposite the witness box was the jury, and to the left were rows of seats for the deceased’s family and friends. Behind them were seats for members of the public.
The legal teams sat in the front two rows. Beyond the witness box, on a raised platform, was the coroner’s desk.
Everyone stood up when he walked in. He was a short, bespectacled man, his black hair salted with grey. His face was crumpled, his expression frosty. His job was to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death, and to ensure there was no negligence or foul play. To make sure that if any fault was found, that everyone would learn from it. He would make recommendations after hearing the case, possibly suggesting certain prison procedures should change, to try to avoid another tragedy.
I glanced across to the bench where the family would sit, but it was empty and my heart sank.
I wondered if Daniel, like many of the prisoners I met, didn’t have any family, or had no one who cared enough to come to his inquest, and the thought made me feel so sad.
‘Doctor Brown.’ My name echoed off the high ceiling.
I slowly rose to my feet, clutching my notes in my right hand, and made my way to the box. I looked to Karen and she gave me an encouraging smile. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking. My mouth was so dry I was worried I wouldn’t be able to speak.
It started well. I was questioned by the barrister representing the Scrubs. He was there to defend me, not to try to trip me up. I told the court the little I knew about Daniel Craven.
‘There really isn’t anything more I can add,’ I eventually concluded.
‘Thank you, Doctor Brown,’ the lawyer said, nodding to the coroner that he had finished his questions.
The lawyer for the Crown Prosecution Service then stood up. She was young, mid-thirties and immaculately dressed. Her blonde hair was tied back into a tight chignon bun. She stared back at me with cold, steely eyes.
Clearing her throat, she said, ‘Doctor Brown, could you please tell us again your impressions of Mr Craven on the night you saw him.’
I glanced down at the notes, balancing on the small wooden ledge inside the witness box.
‘Of course,’ I replied politely, although inside I was feeling increasingly frustrated that I had to keep running through a story that had very little to it. As far as I was concerned, I felt the focus should have been on the rest of the evening, on those hours Daniel was in the First Night Centre, reportedly growing increasingly agitated.
I hadn’t fully understood the meaning of the word cross-examined until then. Ninety minutes later I was still in the witness box, repeatedly going over every minute detail of those fifteen minutes I had spent with him in Reception.
In the end it all became a bit of blur. I felt under attack. I felt criticised. More than anything else I felt angry that I was made to feel guilty, as if I had done something wrong, in front of a whole room full of people. There was only one question that I remember clearly, one that cut deep.
The coroner interrupted the CPS lawyer to ask me a question himself. Peering over his glasses, the frosty-faced man said, ‘Why would you have reason to go back into the notes, Doctor Brown?’
He was referring to the fact that I had logged into Daniel’s medical records after I had finished seeing him. It was something I nearly always did after I had seen someone, to make sure I had typed the notes up correctly, that the sentences made sense and that there were no spelling mistakes. There was often a lot of pressure on the doctors, from the officers, to get the prisoners processed as quickly as possible, and so I usually checked the notes to make sure that I hadn’t made any errors in my rush.
But I was taken aback by the coroner’s line of questioning. I felt as if he was implying that I had tried to cover something up. Maybe I was taking it too personally, and he just needed to understand my reasons for rechecking the notes, but with the tension I was feeling I was struggling to think clearly.
A deathly silence hung in the air, awaiting my answer. I froze. The words caught in my throat and I couldn’t speak.
With every second that ticked by I felt increasingly self-conscious, and as if everyone in the room was thinking that I had done something wrong.
I felt so hurt, as I care passionately about doing the right thing, but at that moment I felt unworthy and useless.
Thoughts tumbled through my head, but I still couldn’t speak. I knew in my heart that that there was nothing I could have done differently that night that would have made a difference.
I felt as if I was going to pass out. Finally, I managed to answer his question, and I held myself together until the nightmare was over and there were no more questions.
I clung on to my composure as I left the witness box. But with every step my legs turned more to jelly.
Karen gestured that she would meet me outside the courtroom. I followed her in silence, feeling everyone’s eyes trailing after me, judging me. Although in reality they were probably fixed on the next witness being sworn in.
I let out a little gasp of relief as soon as I reached the noisy corridor. I could breathe again.
‘Well done,’ Karen said, softly. ‘You did so well.’
I smiled weakly and suddenly it hit me how utterly drained I felt.
Karen gave me a hug and my composure cracked. I wrapped my arms around her and sobbed.
‘I can’t do this any more,’ I whispered, when I could eventually speak.
She stroked my back soothingly. ‘It’s okay, it’s done, it’s over.’
But the experience wasn’t over for me. I couldn’t just shrug it off as I had with so many of the prison dramas. It had knocked my confidence. But most of all, it had rocked that deep insecurity of mine to the core, and I had never felt so undervalued and useless in my life.