sophie’s legacy—
A mother’s story of her family’s loss and their quest for change
Lesley Elliott with William J O’Brien
contents—
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Preface
Introduction
1 Operation Dove
2 The Downward Spiral
3 ‘Any use to you?’
4 Sophie Kate Elliott
5 The Narcissist
6 The Trial
7 The Criminal Justice System
8 The Sophie Elliott Foundation
Epilogue
Addendum
Appendices:
Appendix 1
Appendix 2
Appendix 3
Copyright
This book is dedicated to the memory of
— Sophie Kate Elliott —
11 June 1985 – 9 January 2008
Two months after Sophie died a memorial service was held at the University of Otago. Sophie’s friends selected one of her favourite songs to play during a slide show depicting Sophie’s life. The chosen song, ‘More Than Words’ by Extreme, has a hauntingly beautiful melody and lyrics that meant so much to her.
It was somehow appropriate ‘More Than Words’ had been chosen, for how do you describe what Sophie meant to us? It takes more than words. And how do you describe the nightmare we encountered following her death? It takes more than words. Sophie’s potential was immense but how do we quantify her loss? It takes more than words.
Lesley Elliott
preface—
I never knew Sophie Elliott and there was no reason why I should have. I certainly became aware of her following her horrific slaying at the hands of Clayton Weatherston. Sickening as the murder was, I wasn’t unduly surprised or affected, as after 35 years in the New Zealand Police, I had seen enough images showing what some people were capable of doing to other human beings.
However, I became more interested and concerned about this case during the High Court trial. Although I thought I had ‘seen it all’, I was absolutely appalled at the brutality of this particular murder. I watched television news reports of the trial and was aghast at how the victim was being portrayed. Was Sophie Elliott really the sort of person Weatherston’s defence would have us believe? It almost seemed to me as if it was Sophie on trial. This was not fair, to my mind, either to the victim’s memory, her family or friends, or others associated with her. It was as if to exonerate Clayton Weatherston the blame had to rest with someone else. The unimaginable torment Sophie’s family and close friends must have been experiencing was simply being compounded.
The ultimate insult came when the defendant took the stand. For five days Weatherston smirked and smiled as he gave his evidence. He blamed the victim for her own demise and showed no compunction at trashing her reputation. He claimed it was Sophie who attacked him first using a pair of scissors even though that had never been raised, either at the time of his arrest or in the 18 months that followed. He even made vain attempts to suggest his motivation to kill Sophie was as a result of other people’s influence.
I am not for a moment suggesting people are not entitled to robust defence. This is one of the cornerstones of our justice system. What concerned me was where do we draw the line? In criminal trials the defence’s emphasis seems to be more about getting an acquittal than getting to the real truth of the matter. As a result, many people, people like the Elliotts, become victims not only of the crime, but of the justice system.
When an acquaintance suggested Sophie Elliott couldn’t have been a very nice girl, I decided then that perhaps her story should be told. I believed the Elliotts, if they so wished, should have a voice; a chance to set the record straight and restore Sophie’s name. There were many issues in the criminal justice system the family were grappling with and I learned they were keen to express their concerns. So this book is about how murder impacts on a family, how the criminal justice system can compound grief, and what we can learn from this terrible tragedy regarding relationship violence. Above all, it is about restoring the image of Sophie, a beautiful young woman in every sense of the word.
During the writing of this book, I spent many hours with Lesley Elliott. Seldom have I come across a person who has such an amazing inner strength, yet I know the loss of Sophie weighs as heavily on her heart now as it did three years ago. It was inevitable that our frequent conversations would lend wings to unhappy memories, but I was astounded at how eloquently Lesley could talk about traumatic events while retaining great composure, poise and dignity. Then she might pick up a handwritten note Sophie had left and tears would flow easily. The writing of Sophie’s Legacy has not been easy on either of us. I feel I should pay tribute to Lesley.
Lesley, I admire you, your courage, fortitude and compassion. You have often said how much you admired and took great pride in Sophie’s achievements. I have no doubt that she would have been immensely proud of you, her mum, for the way you have carried yourself through the darkest of times.
You are about to read a story of incredible loss and despair. Loss of a treasured daughter and despair at the way our judicial system can further traumatise good people. I hope that Lesley’s story will touch not only hearts but minds, so that we can build a system that truly cares for people who lose a loved one to murder.
Perhaps the thing that encapsulates the loss of Sophie and what that loss truly means was reflected in an incident during my very first interview with Lesley. We were sitting at her dining room table when our mobile phones rang simultaneously. Lesley’s call was from her aged mother, wanting advice and comfort. The elderly woman lived alone, many kilometres away. Formerly an independent woman, she had suffered terribly since the death of Sophie, a much-admired granddaughter, and her health had declined along with her confidence. She was seeking comforting words about a minor medical concern.
My call was from my son-in-law, brimming with excitement and pride. He was phoning to say I had just become a grandfather for the second time. A beautiful little girl had just been born and after finishing what I was doing could I call into the hospital to cuddle the new arrival? So, here we were, me at one end of the table contemplating what might be and Lesley at the other end reflecting on what might have been.
William J O’Brien
introduction—
The University of Otago campus is set in beautiful surroundings. Old stone buildings are interspersed with modern structures where hordes of eager students strive for excellence. The place drips with history, effort and success. The grounds, where students sit on lawns and study during breaks or bustle along the Water of Leith to any of the numerous lecture rooms or laboratories, are kept in immaculate condition. Many pass by a lone cherry blossom tree surrounded by flowers. Set into stone at the base of the tree is a small brass plaque dedicated to the memory of Sophie Kate Elliott, my daughter.
The reason I begin this story of Sophie within a university setting is that she has become synonymous with that institution, studying and gaining a first-class honours degree in economics. She spent so much time and effort there achieving the high goals she set herself. Sadly, it was at the university she met and began a relationship with one of her tutors — something that was ultimately to cost Sophie her life.
Sophie is still associated with the university. A memorial prize is offered annually to recognise outstanding achievement in the fourth-year honours course in economics. On the University of Otago website it is written: ‘Sophie shone academically but she was about more than outstanding grades. She was truly engaged with learning for its own sake … In memory of Sophie, the University has established The Sophie Kate Elliott Prize.’
It was always inte
nded that Sophie, or Soph as I almost always referred to her, graduate in person in front of family and close friends and alongside her classmates. When someone who is about to graduate has died, a private ceremony is held in the university council chambers. We didn’t want that. We wanted Sophie’s degree to be conferred at the Town Hall on the day she would have normally received it. We approached the vice chancellor and, disappointingly, he didn’t agree and said something about it not being university policy. I suggested Gil, my husband and a former graduate of the university, or our younger son Chris, also a graduate, could be the recipient on Sophie’s behalf. The vice chancellor still said no. This degree had meant so much to Sophie so we went higher and approached the chancellor. His reaction was quite the opposite; he thought it was an entirely appropriate idea and the university council agreed with him.
At graduation ceremonies, graduands’ names are read out in groups of three. They then move across the stage one by one, receive their degree and are ceremonially ‘capped’ before returning to their seats. As Chris approached the steps, the chancellor made a short address about Sophie’s achievements and her untimely death. When her name was read out, Chris walked across the stage before a hushed auditorium. He received the degree and the hall erupted into spontaneous applause. Everyone — graduands, staff and audience — rose as one for a standing ovation. Even in death Sophie touched so many. I was so proud of Chris, doing this on behalf of his sister; but my heart ached — it should have been Sophie up there.
There are so many things that are unfair in this story. The loss of Sophie to her family and friends in such horrible circumstances is self-evident. Also grossly unfair was the way we were shut out of the judicial process that convicted Sophie’s killer. Worse still was the way her murderer and his defence team systematically shredded Sophie’s reputation in a vain attempt to excuse or minimise his actions. Having to sit through a web of lies and being unable to respond is very hard to bear.
I don’t intend to portray Sophie as perfect; neither do I intend to put her on a pedestal. She was simply a confident young woman who studied hard and socialised with a great circle of friends who loved her very much. She was an achiever with a great future. Sophie, like most young people, had faults. She could be strong-willed and at times infuriating and frustrating, just like all children are to their parents. But mostly she was loving and kind, and neither deserved to die as she did nor to be portrayed as she was. How unfair it is that untrue things can be said, or can go unchallenged, because the person is dead. As a consequence much of this book is aimed at setting the record straight. Sophie can’t speak for herself but as her mother, I can.
I was, until 9 January 2008, just an ordinary woman living an ordinary, uncomplicated life. I worked hard to make a good life for my family — that’s what ordinary people do. What I quickly came to realise is that what happened to me and my family can happen to any of us. And you just can’t believe what an indescribable nightmare it can be until you actually live it.
In the case of murder, such as what befell Sophie, the repercussions become wider than most observers could begin to understand. Let me make it perfectly clear that I don’t minimise the grief brought about by death. Regrettably, I’ve seen it all too often over a long nursing career in neonatal intensive care. Not every outcome in a neonatal unit is positive, so I’m acutely aware of what people go through when suddenly confronted with losing someone close and dear. I see the anguish in people facing life-threatening experiences. Although I had heard people say that when loss comes about because of murder it is much harder to bear, I had never understood that before; but I certainly do now. I have seen friends and colleagues of Sophie devastated at her shocking death and further traumatised by the legal system — people who were caught up in the police investigation then had to give evidence about a girl they loved and admired.
It gives me absolutely no peace to even mention the name of my daughter’s killer. Wherever possible I avoid mentioning his name and perhaps that is understandable. But in writing a book such as this it becomes inevitable. I have to refer to him by name, but that is what it is — just a name. It simply identifies who I am referring to. In no way does it imply any kind of respect. Similarly, I have agreed to allow a photograph of him to appear in the book. I didn’t want one of him with Sophie. That would be too disrespectful to her, but I do believe people should remember him, even if it is only as the face of evil.
So this is the story of Sophie Elliott — a story of what happened to her, why it happened and what, if anything, we can learn from her death. This is also the story of a judicial system that seems, at least to us, to be geared more towards providing rights for the defendant than seeking justice for the victim. It is also the story of how repercussions from such an undeniably cruel murder descended upon us like a dark, heavy curtain. There is some light, because out of this tragic event a desire has developed in me to warn other young women, through the Sophie Elliott Foundation, about the dangers of relationships that go wrong. I owe that to Soph.
This story is not about me. This is a story about my treasured daughter, a story as much about hope as it is about despair.
This is a mother’s story.
1
operation dove—
I knew that Wednesday, 9 January 2008 was going to be a day of mixed emotions as I was helping Sophie with her final packing before she shifted north to Wellington. She had secured a position at Treasury as a graduate analyst and like her I was excited at the prospects this first full-time job offered. But this excitement was also tinged with sadness. Sophie was my youngest child and only daughter. Her two brothers, Chris, seven years older and Nick, 11 years older, had already left home to make their way in the world and were living in Melbourne and Sydney respectively. There was no doubt I was going to miss Sophie terribly. With two boys in Australia and my husband managing the medical diagnostic laboratory at Dunstan Hospital some 200 kilometres away, Sophie and I became more than mother and daughter. We were also friends who shared an extremely close relationship and tomorrow she would be on her way to Wellington, leaving me very much alone. But our cherished time together was soon to be shattered in the cruellest way imaginable.
Our home, nestled into a peaceful setting atop a hill and surrounded by beautiful trees and shrubs, overlooks Dunedin Harbour. The day dawned beautiful, the sort of day to really lift one’s spirits. We were up early and I helped Sophie make some semblance of order in her bedroom. There were clothes everywhere. While she got on with packing her clothing, I wrapped fragile things like mirrors, her television set and the like, and boxed them. Together we carried the full cartons downstairs ready for the removal men who were coming later. Sophie was dressed in a denim miniskirt, white shirt and short-sleeved white cardigan. She looked gorgeous, as she always did. At one stage I walked past her bedroom door and noticed her putting on make-up. ‘Are you going out?’ I asked. Sophie had a reputation for being late but on this occasion, her last chance to be with her closest friends, she wanted to be on time for a pizza together at the beach later that day. She knew with all the packing ahead she should take the chance to get ready, even if the meeting was hours away. She looked up and said something endearing, though I can’t for the life of me recall what it was. However, it was enough to bring me to tears. Sophie asked me what was wrong and I told her I was going to miss her so much. She said she would come home to visit regularly and had even arranged to be here for Easter. She came over and gave me a big hug. That was the last hug we had.
A few minutes later I was in the kitchen having just listened to the midday news on the radio. There was a knock at the door. I looked out the window and couldn’t see a car in the drive so peered around to see Clayton Weatherston standing there. I was surprised as he had always parked in the driveway before. I opened the door cautiously. He had a grin on his face. ‘Is Sophie in? I have something for her.’ Sophie had heard the knock and was on the upper landing. She mouthed down to me, ‘Who is it?’ I mou
thed back that it was Clayton. She shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyes to the ceiling but continued coming down the stairs. I opened the door wider and he came in. I didn’t hear what he said but recall Sophie saying she was really busy and running late. If he wanted to talk it would have to be in her room while she continued with her packing. I returned to the kitchen and then remembered his recent assaults on Soph. I began to shake and wondered what I should do. Sophie’s bedroom is directly above the kitchen and normal conversation can be heard as faint murmuring with any raised voices heard easily. I felt apprehensive and instinctively turned off the radio. I didn’t want to interfere as I knew Sophie would be angry with me. I listened but couldn’t hear anything, not even a murmur. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and still heard not a sound. It wouldn’t have been more than five minutes when I heard the bathroom door close and Sophie appeared in the kitchen. I said, ‘What’s going on?’
Sophie said, ‘I don’t know what he wants. He’s just sitting there not saying a word.’
I told her to get rid of him as she was running late and had heaps to do before going out. I suggested that maybe he just wanted to make amends over the assaults and ensure she wasn’t going to report him to the police. The toilet flushed and Sophie said I was probably right and she would get him to go.
She went up the stairs and I heard the door close. This was followed by a terrible scream and Sophie shouting, ‘Don’t Clayton, don’t Clayton.’ I tore up the stairs and heard Sophie screaming and screaming. It was the most ungodly noise. I kicked and belted at the locked door and told him to open it but he didn’t. I had to get in so raced back to the kitchen to get a meat skewer and my cellphone. And as I raced back up the stairs I dialled 111, but have no recollection of doing so. The door handle has a small hole in it as a safety measure to release the locking mechanism. While I was trying to steady my hands to get the skewer into the tiny hole, I could hear a rhythmical thumping. I immediately thought Weatherston was raping Sophie on the bed and it was the headboard banging against the wall. She was still screaming and screaming. It just went on and on. I heard Sophie make two gasping sounds — then no more noise other than this horrible thumping. On getting the door open I saw poor Sophie lying on the floor and I knew instantly she was dead. Weatherston was kneeling, sort of straddled over her, stabbing her violently in the chest. Not pausing, he continued stabbing Sophie with his right hand while pushing the door closed with his left. He never said a word.
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