Chapter 6
Guilty.
Guilty of murder.
Lost, fragile Bethany is found guilty of murder.
The word echoes in my ears. The reverberation is like a knife in my eardrums. Even though this is the verdict I’d expected, it still hurts to hear.
We lost. Bethany is going back to prison, likely for the rest of her life.
She doesn’t belong behind bars; I know this.
She belongs in a hospital where she can receive personalised treatment.
Time seems to blur. Judge Lyons thanks the jury for their work, the prosecuting barrister quietly celebrates her triumph, Mr Thistlethorn starts to pack up his belongings, and I hang my head.
The prison officer takes Bethany away, leading her by her tiny, handcuffed wrists.
Bethany doesn’t scream or protest. Truthfully, I don’t even know if her mind registers the verdict.
She just blankly stares ahead, following the lead of the uniformed prison officer.
Journalists dart out of the courtroom. They’re bumping into one another as they type social media updates about the verdict on their phones.
I’d like to think that their words will be written in such a way as not to stir up a frenzy, but I’m sure these wishes will be in vain.
The entire country has been waiting on the edge of their seats for this verdict. And now they have it.
Bethany Murray. Guilty of murder.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Mr Thistle-twat approaching me.
He’s still wearing his itchy wig. It’s because of him that Bethany is going to jail instead of a hospital.
It was his decision that resulted in this verdict.
Fury, pulsing fury is dribbling down my spine.
I only notice how tightly I’m crushing my pen when the exterior plastic starts to crack.
I cannot bear to look at Mr Thistle-twat.
And I certainly cannot bear to talk to him.
I stand up, strap my satchel over my shoulder, and flee. All the while, I refuse to look in Mr Thistle-twat’s direction.
Standing in the Criminal Courts of Justice’s sizeable foyer, there’s only one thing I want to do: call Tom.
He’d listen as I vented about Mr Thistle-twat, whined about receiving the verdict I’d expected, or planned my next steps aloud.
Tom was good in that way. He knew I always needed a plan to follow, whether the task at hand was life-changing or mundane.
I read through my phone contacts. My thumb hovers over Tom’s contact number. But I cannot call Tom. He no longer wants to know about my plans. And he doesn’t love me anymore either. I lock my phone before I can make a mistake.
There’s a small, shiny silver coffee van opposite the Criminal Courts of Justice.
It’s called ‘Trisha’s’, and the name is displayed in giant yellow and red letters on the van’s roof.
It’s often frequented by legal personnel because it’s so close to the courts.
One time, the owner told me that seventy percent of their coffee is drunk by solicitors, barristers, and judges; ten percent is drunk by passers-by and builders; and the final twenty percent is consumed by those accused of crimes.
According to Melissa, the coffee from Trisha’s isn’t the best. As a non-coffee-drinker, I cannot comment on this.
All I can confirm is that the hot chocolate is sweet enough to momentarily take away a frown.
I look both ways before crossing the road; I don’t want to be hit by a cyclist, a taxi, or a bus.
The sun is sitting happily in the sky, providing a bright, hopeful day.
This contrasts significantly with my pessimistic mood.
Outside the coffee van, there is a group of young women, all dressed in dark garments, laughing as they sip from tiny cups.
A few metres away, a group of builders in high-vis jackets are doing the same.
Awkwardly, I step up to Trisha’s metallic van, filling the gap between the two groups.
“It’s a lovely day out, isn’t it?” the young barista says to me.
She’s dressed in black and has her hair greased back into a tight ponytail. Her voice is soft, unbroken by the terrors of young adulthood.
“It’s gorgeous,” I force myself to reply. If only she knew the true terrors that have already transpired today.
“The forecast said it was supposed to lash all day.” She laughs. “But as my nanny always said, those eejits on the telly haven’t a clue what they’re doing.”
I feign a titter. All I can think about is how Bethany may never have the freedom of ordering a coffee ever again.
“What can I get for you?” the barista asks when I don’t offer any further conversation.
One of the young women beside me throws her head back and lets out an almighty cackle. It’s so loud it sends a vibration through me. I’ve overheard parts of their conversation and now understand that these women are paralegals.
I wince. “A hot chocolate please.”
“Do you want marshmallows and cream with that?” The barista is already reaching for a tube of whipped cream. She’s read my mind.
“Please.”
While I wait for the barista to concoct a cure for my misery, a man comes up beside me.
We’re similar in height and attire, but, upon further inspection, differences are evident.
This man is much older than I am, his skin wrinkled in places, and his charcoal suit is at least three times as expensive as mine.
This man is my boss, Mr Robert O’Leary, one of the most experienced solicitors on the island of Ireland.
“Nick.” He extends his hand in greeting.
“Mr O’Leary,” I reply, shaking his hand. “It’s great to see you, sir.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him. Not only is he my boss and more than double my age, but I’m positive that we have nothing in common. Also, it doesn’t help that I was part of the defence team that just lost one of the biggest murder cases in recent history.
“Fine weather, isn’t it?” Mr O’Leary notes, eyeing the clear sky.
“It is,” I agree, just like I did with the barista earlier.
“The sun could split the trees in half.”
I laugh while the barista hands me my hot chocolate. I immediately take a sip but burn my tongue. I grimace.
After Mr O’Leary orders a cappuccino, he returns his attention to me. “I heard about the Murray case,” he says, no discernible emotions apparent in his tone.
I swallow hard and shove my free hand into my pocket. I make a fist and squeeze, preparing for a telling off.
He asks, “Fergal was the barrister on that case, am I correct?”
I nod slowly, too afraid to say anything. I don’t know where to look. My gaze moves from Mr O’Leary to the ground to the builders in quick succession.
“Ah,” Mr O’Leary says, apparently sensing my unease.
“Fergal can be difficult to work with at the best of times.” He accepts his coffee and sips it.
“He’s very set in his ways. If he decides to do something, there’s no telling him otherwise.
Lots of barristers can be like that – you’ll learn, believe me. ”
I chuckle a little louder than intended because I’m so relieved that Mr O’Leary hasn’t sacked me. One of the paralegals throws evil eyes at me.
Mr O’Leary blows gently on his coffee. “So, what’s the plan now? What are your next steps?”
He has put me on the spot. Yes, I do have a plan, but I haven’t had time to flesh it out or fully consider its merits and demerits.
That’s why I need Tom to love me again. Save for Brendan, he’s the only person I trust enough to tell my plans to.
Tom was always the listening ear I needed, especially when it came to the law. And now, that ear is gone.
I squeeze my fist tighter in my pocket. “We’ll appeal the conviction.”
“And do you have sufficient grounds to do so?”
Bluffing, I answer, “Yes, I think we do.”
“Does Fergal know about this plan?”
I’m clenching my fist so hard that my knuckles are starting to ache. I squeeze harder at the mention of Thistle-twat. “No. I think it would be more beneficial for Mrs Murray to be represented by a different barrister for an appeal.”
Mr O’Leary thinks for a moment. “I think that would be a wise decision for Mrs Murray. Fergal is not the best at advocating when it comes to the appeals process. Do you have a specific barrister in mind for the task?”
I rack my brain for the name of a barrister.
Any barrister. I’m picturing the Find a Barrister section of the Law Library’s website; its navy and white colours appear in my mind.
Pitifully, I can only think of one barrister and the social media post I’ve recently seen.
If I can avoid working with him, I will.
Thirty long seconds later, I still haven’t provided the name of a barrister I wish to work with.
“You know,” Mr O’Leary says, “I was reading an article over the weekend about a barrister called Ben Kehoe. He got an innocent man out of prison there last week. Apparently, he’s a great advocate. He might be the perfect person for the job.”
Damn it. This can’t be happening. Surely this can’t be happening. Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. I feel sick at the mention of his name. Bile travels up my gullet, burning my throat. I wonder if my expression shows my torment. If it does, Mr O’Leary doesn’t mention it.
He’s peering back at the Criminal Courts of Justice. “Jesus!” His voice is animated, amazed. “Speak of the devil. There he is!”
With a nauseous feeling still ravaging my stomach, I hold my breath and turn to face the Criminal Courts of Justice.
Indeed, there he is. No longer hidden underneath a barrister’s robes and wig.
Broad shoulders. A perfectly tailored suit, its colour as dark as a cloud of thunder.
A sly smirk. Expertly groomed stubble. A nest of curls as black as leaked ink at the top of his head.
And an arrogance that makes the whole world stop to appreciate him.
Ben Kehoe.
“Mr Kehoe,” Mr O’Leary calls, like they’re old friends. He waves his hand, inviting Ben towards us. “Come here to us.”
Ben throws his chiselled chin up to acknowledge Mr O’Leary and then starts in the direction of Trisha’s coffee van. But there’s one thing standing between him and the man summoning him. It’s me. And I’m frozen to the spot. I can’t go anywhere. I’m a sitting duck.