‘She wasn’t so distraught she couldn’t remove her own bloodied jacket and sweater before the police arrived,’ said prosecuting counsel.
‘I think,’ said the defence dryly, ‘we can accept Dr Weston’s own explanation as a genuine one.’ He flipped through a sheaf of notes, and then read, ‘“I was shaking and I felt sick. I managed to push him off me, and then I rushed to the cloakroom to be sick. It was only afterwards I realized I was soaked in Don’s blood. I couldn’t bear the smell of it or the wetness, so I took everything off and stuffed it in a plastic bin liner. Then I heard the police and the ambulance arriving, so I pulled on a tracksuit and let them in.”’ He lowered the notes and looked directly at the jury. ‘I think most people will sympathize with Dr Weston’s actions over that,’ he said, and Antonia thought the women on the jury half nodded as if in agreement.
But she had known by then that a verdict of manslaughter was inescapable–the difference between manslaughter and murder had been explained to the court at the outset–but beneath the grinding pain at Richard’s death, she had thought there might be a recommendation for clemency. Would it even result in a suspended sentence? Probation? But nagging at her conscience like an aching tooth was the memory of how she had felt when Don died…Glad, strong, triumphant…You’re dead, you bastard, and serve you right for killing Richard. It was absurd to think she should be punished for thinking and feeling that, and it was probably verging on clinical hysteria, but she did think it and she did feel it.
Summing up, the judge said the facts of Richard Weston’s own murder seemed clear enough, and were not really in question. Don Robards had been seen in the area at the significant time, and he was known to have formed a violent passion for Dr Weston. It was reasonable to surmise that he had gone into the pub to bolster his courage with a few drinks before going along to confront her with his feelings for her.
They had the neighbour’s evidence of raised voices from the bungalow, as of two people engaged in an argument, and although they could not know the state of Don Robards’ mind that night, it was reasonable to assume he had taken Richard Weston to be Dr Weston’s lover or husband, rather than her brother, and had attacked and killed him out of blind jealousy. Dr Weston had told the court this seemed to be Don Robards’ belief in the last few minutes of his life, and there was no reason to disbelieve that. She had given a frank account of everything that had taken place, and there was no reason to doubt any of it.
And although the jury must take into account the fact that Antonia Weston had been distraught at her brother’s death, and, if they were to believe her evidence, afraid for her own safety, they must not allow themselves to be unduly swayed by any false sentiment or sympathy. Now the court would rise, and the jury were to retire to the jury room and consider their verdict.
It took the jury the best part of eight hours to reach a verdict, but in the end it was that of guilty, as everyone had known it would be. Guilty of manslaughter.
Sentence was not passed until the following day, and Antonia spent a miserable night, watching the clock crawl through the hours. She tried to convince herself that she did not care what happened to her, but somewhere between midnight and four a.m. she knew she did care.
Caring what happened did not make any difference to the sentence. The judge told the court that the gaoling of a professional woman of considerable intelligence–a woman who had clearly been a dedicated and gifted psychiatrist–offended every sensibility, but that the facts could not be ignored. And those facts, quite simply, were that a doctor bound by the Hippocratic oath had killed a patient. There was a good deal more about the sanctity of the doctor–patient relationship and a fair amount about the judge’s own reluctance to pass a custodial sentence.
But despite his reluctance, Antonia was sentenced to eight years in gaol.