Fellside prison was a private entity, wholly owned by a security company that went by the name of N-fold. N-fold had only just climbed on board the correctional bandwagon, and its board of directors was very mindful of the PR implications of their latest prisoner. While the paperwork was still in process, they went into conclave with an extremely select and highly expensive group of human rights lawyers. This was two full weeks into Moulson’s hunger strike, which she’d started in the remand cells at Winstanley right after her conviction. The media had got wind of it two or three days in and made a mighty noise about it, embellishing their accounts with choice titbits which had to have come from one of the remand wing guards or trusties.
Then on the morning of Moulson’s transfer from Winstanley, the directors sent their in-house expert up to the prison on a fast train out of King’s Cross to tell the governor, Save-Me Scratchwell, what his options were. She told him they were limited.
“We’ve looked at this from a lot of different angles,” she explained. “And we’ve taken legal advice from top people in the field. We’ve decided to let Ms Moulson die. That’s going to be the most straightforward course and, from a legal point of view, the most easily defensible.”
The governor had come by his nickname because of his evangelical zeal. And being a religious man as well as a company-owned one, he was deeply divided about this whole Moulson situation. He was also frankly unimpressed with the legal expert, who dressed like a fashion plate and looked as though she was barely out of law school.
“Just let her die?” he echoed. “Really? Surely in today’s world there are interventions. Regimes…”
“There are the same interventions there always were,” the expert told him. “The nutritional mix and the delivery systems may have been refined in various ways, but forced feeding is still basically putting a tube into a person’s stomach – either through the nostril or directly through the torso – so you can pour something down it. And it’s still illegal.”
“But if it’s to save a life, it’s got to be justified, hasn’t it? I believe I read in connection with Guantanamo Bay that they have a policy of—”
“Yes, they do, but it’s illegal there too. There’s broad agreement that it’s a form of torture. International agreement. Since 1975, if someone tries to starve themselves, and they’re of sound mind, you’ve got to let them do it. The only way you’d get away with force-feeding them is if you could prove their judgement was impaired.”
Scratchwell thought that through until he found the unexcluded middle.
“Which very definitely is not going to happen,” the expert said as he opened his mouth to speak. “If you were to get a psychiatric evaluation done on Jess Moulson now, and if it gave even the smallest indication that she was in an abnormal state of mind, it would cast doubt on the guilty verdict. Her solicitor would call a mistrial and the Crown Prosecution Service would get very seriously upset. Frankly, governor, it would be an embarrassment for us. And the timing would be extremely awkward. We’re currently negotiating a new raft of government contracts, all of which depend on our being seen to do a good job here.”
Scratchwell was starting to feel really unhappy about all this. It had the look of a no-win situation. “But if Moulson dies here at Fellside – on my watch, so to speak – surely I’m in breach of my duty of care. Especially if I didn’t take any steps to make absolutely sure she’s in her right mind. What if we’re sued? What if I’m charged with manslaughter?”
“That’s vanishingly unlikely. And you’d win the case.”
“If a burglar can sue a householder when he falls through a skylight…”
“Bodine versus Enterprise High School. The burglar didn’t win; the school settled. And that was in America.”
“You said there was international agreement…” Scratchwell began.
“On force-feeding, governor, not on every possible wrinkle of the law of tort. Believe me when I tell you that you can’t be sued for your failure to do something you’d have been legally barred from doing in the first place.”
The expert raised both hands, miming the scales of a balance. “On the other hand, if you respect Moulson’s wishes and allow her to die, you can devote yourself to making her comfortable over that time, and you can talk openly to reporters about exactly what steps you’re taking to lessen her suffering. That may sound cynical, but I suggest you think of it as the lesser evil. You can fight Moulson or you can work with her, and if you work with her you can do some visible good.
“Of course, the moment when she dies is still going to be a critical time for you, and there could be control issues.”
“You mean riots.”
“We can’t rule them out. Everyone knows a death is the perfect inciting incident. But we’ve quantified the risk as low on the basis of three factors. One: Moulson killed a child. So the emotions stirred up by her death probably won’t include outrage or a sense of injustice. Particularly since – factor two – it’s suicide. She wants this.”
“And what’s factor three?”
The expert shrugged. “Nobody ever gets to meet her,” she told Scratchwell. “You don’t release her into gen pop at all. She’ll most likely be dead in two months anyway.”
The governor boggled a little at this sting in the tail. Isolating a prisoner pre-emptively could usually only be done when there was an immediate security risk which outweighed the prisoner’s rights to humane treatment. It was a breach of a great many different statutory regulations and guidelines. “Solitary?” he exclaimed.
“I thought you didn’t use that word here. But no. I’m talking about medical withdrawal, not punitive. Your infirmary has a quarantine unit, doesn’t it? You put Moulson in there. If she’s serious about dying, she’ll soon be needing continuous medical supervision. You’ll just be starting that process early. It’s all about keeping a low profile, governor. The main aim is not to excite commentary or prurient attention any more than is necessary.”
Scratchwell’s uncertainty still showed on his face. “You shouldn’t overthink this,” the expert advised him. “Moulson’s needs are best met by accepting the choice she’s made and facilitating it.”
“Facilitating her death?”
“Absolutely.”
10
Jess was transferred from Winstanley to Fellside by private ambulance. The accommodations on board were so luxurious, she almost expected an in-flight movie.
She didn’t eat, of course, although food was available. But there was a bottle of water by the side of her gurney and another set up in some kind of cradle over her head. The second bottle had a rubber nipple attached to the business end which Jess could reach just by turning her head in case she was too weak to stretch out her hand. She wasn’t – not yet. Two weeks into the hunger strike, she could still sit up and even walk a few steps unaided.
There were about a hundred diagnostic devices to measure her vital signs, a remote for the gurney which let her sit up just by pushing a button and three nurses whose whole purpose for being there was to make sure that Jess didn’t experience a single moment of discomfort. Two of the nurses had been hired from the same private hospital that provided the ambulance; the third, Patience DiMarta, was a Fellside staffer.
Patience was one half Portuguese, the other half West African, but her accent was broad Yorkshire. She stood a head taller than the agency nurses and ordered them around with an easy authority. She was brisk and cheerful, not fazed by the weirdness of the assignment. She told Jess that her preferred way of working was no nonsense on either side. That deal would hold as long as Jess behaved herself, and would lapse if she made any trouble.