Chapter 2
Over the weekend, speculation continues regarding the returning of a verdict in the Murray case.
One news outlet believes that the jury will need at least two weeks to thoroughly consider the evidence, while another suggests that the rendering of a verdict is imminent.
To add to this, unsurprisingly, armchair detectives on social media vary in their opinions.
Some advocate for compassion, whereas others argue that Bethany should pay for her crimes.
Clearly, people are divided over many aspects of this case.
People say that all publicity is beneficial. I don’t agree. Interest in this case is mounting, and with it, my concerns for Bethany’s welfare.
I try my best to enjoy my time with Brendan.
We don’t get to see each other as much as we used to since he took the job in the Department of Housing and moved to Wexford for it.
While he spent his time in the sunny South-East, I stayed in a posh area of Dublin with Tom, basking in the fact that I managed to snag such a handsome, wealthy boyfriend.
Only for this perfect life to go up in flames.
Brendan and I take Bailey, Brendan’s hyper four-legged companion, for a walk on Sunday evening.
With the summer coming to an end, Brendan wants to make the most of the remaining sunny evenings while he can.
We take Bailey to a nearby beach and watch as the sun starts its descent, falling into the gentle waves.
It’s a beautiful sight to see, but it doesn’t prove to be the distraction I yearn for it to be.
It feels like there’s an unfilled space beside me, a void that would usually be occupied by Tom.
Brendan has Bailey’s leash to hold, and I should have Tom’s hand to hold.
The absence of his presence is crushing.
“Did you see this?” Brendan asks me.
We stop, our shoes digging into the sand. He holds his phone up to my face. Bailey isn’t happy with the sudden interruption to her walk; she whines and starts to tug on her leash.
“See what?” I push my sunglasses to the top of my head.
“This.”
Brendan’s phone screen has seen better days. Cracks run down the centre, and the corners look as if they have been chewed – I’m sure he has Bailey to thank for that. I crane my neck and edge closer to the phone.
There it is. His smug face.
“That’s Ben Kehoe, right?” Brendan says. “What did he do to end up in The Irish Times?”
I continue reading. The headline reads: ‘Cruel Miscarriage of Justice Rectified by the Actions of Compassionate Barrister’. I don’t read further. I know what the rest of the article will consist of. To be candid, I could do without seeing a journalist kissing Ben Kehoe’s ass right now.
I look away, glancing back at the setting sun. After a pause, I say as neutrally as I can, “He saved an innocent man in prison.”
Reading my tone, Brendan says, “I bet he’s loving all the attention.”
Subduing my anger, I say softly, “I bet he is.”
A quiet moment ensues. Bailey excitedly sniffs a large rock, and Brendan pockets his phone.
“Do you ever see him?” Brendan asks. “Like in court or anything?”
I don’t answer Brendan’s question. I don’t want to talk about Ben Kehoe or his great achievement.
I thought I was done with Ben Kehoe, especially after what happened on that night five years ago.
I just want to go home, go back to Tom. I know that I cannot do the latter, so I say, “Can we just head back to yours?”
Brendan approves, and Bailey cheerfully leads the way. Though we don’t talk about him, the topic of Ben Kehoe is certainly on both of our minds.
On Monday morning, I have to go to Dublin.
It’s an office day, and Mrs Adams is very strict about employees attending the office.
I don’t understand her reasoning for the strict implementation of this ‘attend the office’ policy.
Perhaps it’s because I’m from an entirely different generation.
From what I have read online, there is much discourse on this issue.
My generation – Gen Z – prefers to work remotely, whereas Mrs Adams’s generation – boomers – wants to see all their employees in the office.
I have my reasons for preferring remote working: it’s cheaper, requires no commuting, is better for the environment, and allows flexibility – something that I desperately need at present while I figure out what direction my life is going in.
On the flip side, I’m sure Mrs Adams has her reasons for desiring employees to be in the office; I just don’t care to hear any of those reasons.
The commute from Brendan’s house to O’Leary and Adams’s Dublin office will be a long one.
Days ago, my commute to the office would have only been thirty minutes.
Now, however, it’ll likely take more than two hours.
I decide to take the train instead of driving.
Firstly, because traffic in Dublin will be outrageous.
Secondly, because finding a parking space will be impossible.
And thirdly, because I’d like to get some work done while commuting.
Gorey train station is quiet before 6:00 a.m. Early morning darkness still surrounds me, but shreds of daylight are fighting to be noticed.
It isn’t cold, but there is a slight chill floating in the air.
I’m grateful I brought my suit jacket, even if I inevitably end up removing it as the day progresses.
I like this suit. It’s one of my favourites.
It’s a deep maroon colour, almost as rich as mature burgundy.
Tom liked this suit too, but God only knows if he’ll ever see me in it again.
Luckily, the train arrives on time. I hop on quickly, listening to the announcer’s warning to ‘Mind the gap’.
When I find my seat, I plonk my heavy satchel onto the empty space beside me and yawn widely, covering my mouth with a skinny hand.
With that, I wrestle my laptop free from the satchel and bravely enter the swamp of unopened emails.
Halfway through the journey, still blinking the bleariness out of my eyes, I glance out the window.
The sun is beginning to rise; its colour is just as vibrant as the yolk in a frying egg.
In the distance, I spot the large peaks of the Wicklow Mountains.
My heart grows heavy at this sight. My mind is not focused on my emails anymore; it’s focused on Tom.
The last time we spent time together as a couple, we climbed a mountain in Wicklow.
I had to drive because Tom’s car had failed the NCT.
The roads were very twisty and bumpy along the way, almost serpent-like.
I squeezed the steering wheel as tightly as I could throughout the drive, and Tom anxiously clutched his seatbelt as we weaved around the turns.
After we’d spent two hours walking uphill and downhill, through muck and through water in complete silence, we came back, destroyed and exhausted, to the car. When I was about to put it into gear, Tom stopped me by putting his hand over mine.
‘I think we should talk,’ he said.
I knocked the car back into neutral and switched off the engine. I had a feeling that this was coming. For the whole silent journey, I could sense him holding his breath, like there was something he needed to say but didn’t know when to say it.
‘Okay,’ I said to him. ‘What’s up?’
Tom didn’t look at me when he spoke. ‘I’m not happy, Nick. And I don’t think you are either.’
I gulped.
Into the silence, Tom said, ‘I don’t think we’ll ever be happy together. Maybe we’re too different. We’re not the same people that we were when we met. You’ve changed and so have I.’
Tears rose in my eyes, and a lump filled my throat. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
Tom took a deep breath. ‘I think it’d be best if you went back to Wexford for a bit. Spend some time with your brother.’
I push this painful memory away, burying it deep. I shake my head from side to side to rid myself of the picture of Tom, his T-shirt drenched in sweat, telling me to go to my brother’s because he doesn’t love me anymore.
The train arrives at Connolly station twenty minutes later than intended.
I race off the train and sprint for the Luas.
I manage to step onto it just as the doors are closing.
The tram is packed, as usual, and I barely have enough room to expand and contract my chest as I breathe.
Thankfully, I’ll only be taking this transport for a maximum of fifteen to twenty minutes.
When I step off, triumphant in the fact that I can breathe again, my phone starts to ring. It’s Melissa.
“Hello?”
“Nick, are you in Dublin yet?” She sounds breathless – maybe she was on the same Luas as I was.
“Yeah. I’m walking to the office now. You wouldn’t believe the amount—”
“Nick, don’t bother coming to the office. Just go straight to court.”
“Why?” I hold my breath.
“Because the jury have a verdict.”
I walk as briskly as my legs will allow to the Criminal Courts of Justice.
I arrive just before 9:00 and take the steps outside two at a time.
These are the same steps where Ben Kehoe’s picture was taken.
I grumble to myself when I realise this.
Pushing through the revolving door, I know exactly where I’m headed: Courtroom Number Six.
I’m panting slightly as I enter. Thanks to my haste to get to the courtroom, I’ve almost run out of breath. I can feel tiny beads of sweat forming at my brow; I wipe these away with my sleeve, darkening the rich maroon further.
Most of the court staff are already here.
The powerful judge is sitting at his elevated bench, facing the courtroom.
Judge Lyons is an elderly man, with a liver-spotted scalp and a shake in his step.
Beneath the judge is the court clerk. She’s a young woman, maybe in her thirties.
Her hair is pulled back as tightly as her hairclips will allow, and her winged eyeliner is expertly applied.
The prosecuting solicitor faces the prosecuting barrister.
Only barristers are required to wear the lengthy black robes and white wigs; solicitors need only wear court-appropriate clothing.
To give credit where credit is due, Ms Victoria Ahern, Senior Counsel, and Mr Brian Murphy prosecuted this case excellently by presenting the evidence in a clear, comprehensible manner.
They likely know that they have won this case already – that’s why their expressions are so smug.
Beside the prosecuting barrister is Mr Thistlethorn.
With glasses resting at the end of his nose, he is rifling through a folder filled with evidence.
I don’t know what he’s looking for. And even if he did find something of benefit to Bethany, it’s too late to use it now.
Judge Lyons summed up all the evidence and gave instructions to the jury early last week, and the jury now have their verdict.
The introduction of a new theory for the defence will not be entertained by the judge, and even if it were, the jury would indisputably be enraged by it.
Much of their precious time has already been taken up by this case.
They likely don’t want to waste any more on it.
Every so often, Mr Thistlethorn stops his search to scratch the skin under whatever remaining hair rests beneath his itchy wig.
I resist the urge to glower at him as I take my seat.
Considering I will be facing Mr Thistlethorn for the duration of this hearing, this will be a difficult urge to supress.
Members of the public and journalists are flocking into the public gallery, eager to occupy whatever spaces they can find. People are squashed into benches, contorting their bodies in ways that must be excruciatingly uncomfortable.
“It’s going to be a long day, Claire,” I hear Judge Lyons lament to the clerk. He scans the room.
“You can say that again.” She huffs.
Bethany is led in by a prison officer. She told Mr Thistlethorn and I that she wouldn’t be able to afford bail, no matter what the cost, so we didn’t submit a bail application on her behalf.
Because of this, she’s been held in the Focus Facility, a women’s prison, on remand.
As she’s directed towards the dock, we catch a glimpse of each other.
Bethany doesn’t look well. Her clothes are wrinkled, her hair is a tangled mess, and she’s trembling.
She looks so fragile, like a scared little lamb that needs to be protected.
I wish I could go to her, give her a hug and tell her everything will be alright.
Alas, I can’t. It would be improper and unprofessional.
As Bethany takes her seat, I study her further.
It’s her eyes that interest me. They look empty, hollow.
She’s staring into space, into nothing. It’s like her body is here, but her mind is somewhere else.
I think of how Mr Thistlethorn should have used the insanity defence or queried her fitness to be tried but stop myself before I can scowl in his direction.
With all relevant parties present, Judge Lyons directs his gaze to the court guard. “Please let the jury in, Mr Gannon.”
Mr Gannon opens a squeaky wooden door and the jury enters. Twelve random members of the public selected from the Register of Electors.
“We have been informed that you have reached a unanimous verdict,” Judge Lyons announces as the members of the jury take their seats.
The jury foreman stands. He’s a short, bald man, likely in his late forties. His eyebrows are long and bushy. “We have, Judge.”
The entire courtroom falls silent, so silent that you could easily hear a pin drop.
The foreman readies himself to continue. He inhales deeply, causing his shoulders to rise, and scratches at his bushy eyebrow. Then, he says it. That one horrible word that cements Bethany’s future. My stomach drops when I hear it.
“Guilty.”