Voicing Loss: ‘I know it’s all about the death, but somehow it becomes about their life when you’ve got the inquest’

This blog is part of a series from the Institute for Crime and Justice Policy Research (ICPR) at Birkbeck, University of London, guest edited by Dr Amy Kirby. This blog series will reflect upon debates about contemporary methodological approaches and novel and emerging legal issues on the topic of lay participation in the courts. We will do this by putting two of our current projects under the spotlight: Lived Experience of the Law: A Research and Policy Project (funded by the Nuffield Foundation, conducted in partnership with the charity Revolving Doors) and Voicing Loss: Meanings and implications of participation by bereaved people in inquests (funded by the Economic and Social Research Council, grant reference ES/V002732/1, research conducted in partnership with the Centre for Death and Society at the University of Bath).

Jessica Jacobson, Professor of Criminal Justice, Institute for Crime & Justice Policy Research

Alexandra Murray, Research Fellow, Institute for Crime & Justice Policy Research

Lorna Templeton, Research Associate, Department of Social & Policy Sciences, University of Bath

Coroners investigate violent, unnatural and unexplained deaths and deaths in state detention. The inquest is the final stage of the coroner’s investigation, and usually takes the form of a public hearing. The purpose of the inquest is to address four questions: who died, and how, when and where they died. 

For many of the bereaved respondents in the Voicing Loss research, it was highly important for the coronial process to give due recognition to the humanity and uniqueness of the individual whose death was the subject of investigation. As far as the bereaved were concerned, questions about the death could not be addressed in isolation from considerations of the life and character of the person who had died.  ‘I know it’s all about the death,’ said the mother of a young man who had died by suicide while a university student, ‘but somehow it becomes about their life when you’ve got the inquest.’

Accordingly, the way in which coroners and other professionals communicated about the deceased person had significant repercussions for bereaved family members. Where communication was respectful and acknowledged the deceased person’s essential humanity, this offered comfort and reassurance. 

[The coroner] was very warm… And she was like, ‘You know, I’m conscious of the way we’re talking about this because it’s a person who is involved; it’s your loved one.’ [sister]

It was on [my husband]’s birthday that [the inquest] was meant to start… I said to the coroner, ‘You do know [that’s his] birthday?’ She was like, ‘I can’t. I’ve got to change it.’ So, she changed it. [wife]

Conversely, communication which was disrespectful, or seemed to deny or dismiss the personhood of the deceased, caused anger and hurt. 

They’re talking about my brother like he’s nothing. My brother had no face, no name, no nothing. He was just called ‘the deceased’. And it upsets me that all these parties involved – it suits some of them to keep calling like that, a faceless, nameless human – not even a human. [sister]  

It was just another student to him; it was another death; it was another young person who took drugs. I really did feel that. I felt there was no respect. I felt that [my son] did deserve respect, because he was a human being, but he had had his struggles. [mother]

Poor or inconsiderate communication about the physical body of the deceased person was especially distressing for some bereaved respondents. 

Then, one morning [the coroner’s officer] phoned and said, ‘I’m just phoning to give you the good news that the autopsy has been completed. I just want to ask you what you want to do with the soft tissue samples.’ I said, ‘I beg your pardon?’…  At that point, I hadn’t actually comprehended the intrusive nature of the autopsy. When he then said about the major organs that those tissue samples had been taken from, I realised what had happened. That was very, very, very distressing – distressing to the point of nightmare stressing. [mother]

‘Pen portraits’ are an increasingly common feature of inquests, where bereaved family members present information about the life and character of the deceased person.

This is reflected in Chief Coroner guidance which states that ‘it is appropriate for the opportunity [for a pen portrait] to be offered when the bereaved will be attending an inquest’.

The Voicing Loss research found that the admission of pen portrait material at inquest hearings provides an opportunity for the deceased person to be humanised and given a posthumous voice. Pen portraits were greatly valued by some bereaved respondents as a means of conveying to the court something of the character and quirks of the deceased person; the kind of life they had led and the relationships that had sustained them; and sometimes the struggles and difficulties they and their families had endured.

[Reading my son’s pen portrait] was probably the last thing I could do for him, and that was my way of being there…  That was good, that we had that opportunity… We wanted them to see him as a person. He was a son, he was a brother, he was a cousin and he was a friend to a lot of people. And that’s what we wanted to get through: that he was more than just a prisoner. [mother]

Where bereaved family members had chosen to read the pen portrait statement themselves, this helped to create a powerful sense of engagement with and inclusion in the inquest process. 

[The coroner] made me feel like I owned that courtroom… I was made to feel like I was the most important person in there by the coroner, and everyone else… I wanted [my brother’s] voice to be heard. And the way for his voice to be heard is for me to do it. [sister]

Also important to some bereaved respondents was the opportunity to display a photograph or short video of the person who had died. 

For the whole of four weeks, she was up front and centre, almost next to the coroner, just in front of him… It was wonderful. I can’t overestimate the positive impact that that had for us, as a family, to really feel that she was part of the proceedings… It’s heart-breaking, but it was wonderful… To have a picture of her to be part of it as well, just to remind everybody … that this name on the documents that they’re talking about was a person, and a young person, who had funny-coloured hair. [mother]

We started with a little video of [my son], which was, actually, very powerful… And that felt very important in the process. It just felt that that [my son] was there, in the courtroom. [father]

On the other hand, some bereaved respondents had the experience of being denied the opportunity to present a pen portrait or to display a photograph, which angered and saddened them.

They wouldn’t let me put a picture of [my daughter] up. They made me take a photo of her down because it was too ‘upsetting’ for the clinicians giving evidence. I thought, ‘Fuck your clinicians – what about us?’ [mother]

Mother:  And the coroner, literally, speaking with his head down so that I could barely hear what he was actually saying, was flicking through all the evidence that we’d sent to him…Then rapidly gave his decision. Got up. And I said: ‘What about my family statement?’ And he said – 

Father: –  ‘It’s over. It’s finished. I’ve given my judgment.’ Turned tail and walked out through his door.

The Voicing Loss project explored the extent to which bereaved people feel included in the coronial process, and the ways in which they are able to participate – where they wish to do so. It is evident from the findings reported in this blog that, for many bereaved people, essential to meaningful inclusion and participation is the experience of respectful communication about the deceased person, and opportunities for reflection on their life and individuality.