Chapter 8 #2
These strong warnings and ugly reminders provided by the rational section of my brain succeed in their mission. I delete the text to Tom, abandon my phone, and return to reading case law in relation to Mr Foley’s quarrel with his neighbour.
“Dare I ask how your day was?” Brendan says.
It’s after 8:30 p.m. and I’ve only just arrived home.
Sure, I knew the commute to the office was going to be a long and difficult one, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.
My legs are weak, my body feels too heavy, and it feels like a fog has developed over my brain. I look at Brendan, exhausted.
Seeing my beat state, Brendan lets out a sole giggle. “Don’t worry, Nicky. You’ll adapt to the commute.”
I don’t want to adapt to this commute. I want to go back to my old commute. “Thanks, Brendan.” I don’t have the energy to describe my day just yet. I collapse into the corner sofa beside Bailey. “You go first. How was your day?” I ask.
Brendan follows me to the sofa, sits down on the opposite side of Bailey and pets her head. “The usual, really. Nothing major. There was a scrap between two TDs in Leinster House though.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember the names of the TDs, but they were arguing about tax on farmers or something, and then they just started shouting. The Ceann Comhairle went mental.”
I’m sure I’ll read a news article or catch a segment about it on tomorrow’s commute.
“Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about your day. I saw that the verdict came in. I’m so sorry, Nicky.” There’s genuine sorrow in Brendan’s voice. “How are you feeling about it?”
Loosening my tie, I relay the day’s events, beginning with my struggles with commuting and ending with my conversation with Bethany on the phone. Brendan’s interest is piqued by one aspect of my day in particular. That is, obviously, Ben Kehoe.
Brendan is thunderstruck by my revelation. “So, you’re going to be working on this appeal with Ben Kehoe? The same Ben Kehoe that we went to college with?”
My eyes are fixed to the fluffy mat beneath his coffee table when I sigh, “Yes.”
“Shit, Nicky. Do you think that’s a good idea? Remember what happened the last time you two worked on a group project?”
I’ll never forget my first, last and only group project with Ben Kehoe.
Somehow, we’d been paired together to give a presentation in our probate law module.
As part of the presentation, we were required to present on aspects of the Succession Act of 1965.
The result of our partnership was disastrous.
Rather than lecturing the class on the many intricacies of the 1965 Act, Ben and I bickered with one another, arguing over what each section of the Act outlined.
Ben also made sure to point out any minor typing errors I’d made when preparing the presentation slides.
‘Section 117 applies to children and failures in moral duty’, I shouted at him.
‘Maybe so, but that’s not what you’ve written on the slides you prepared’, Ben shot back.
To make things worse, our quarrel took place in front of the entire class, our lecturer included. The lecturer ended the class early that day. I think he warned other lecturers about our strained relationship too, because Ben and I were never paired together again.
“You should take the Bar exam and come help me. He’d never be able to fight the both of us at once,” I tell Brendan.
“Now, Nicky. You know I’m a happy civil servant. Why would I go and ruin that?”
“Fair. You have your pension to look forward to. I guess I’m a one-woman army, then.”
“I guess you are.”
After that, Brendan and I sit down for dinner.
We talk about everything and anything and then FaceTime our mam.
While loading the dishwasher, I receive a text.
I hold my breath with the hope that it may have come from Tom.
Who else would be texting after 10:00 p.m. on a Monday?
I release the breath when I see Melissa’s name.
Hey Nick. I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I think you should start putting yourself out there again. Whenever you’re ready to start dating, let me know. I think Conor from IT would like to throw his hat into the ring.
Her text is completed with a winking face emoji.
I appreciate Melissa’s interest, but dating isn’t something I should be concerned with right now. I lock my phone, finish loading the dishwasher, and head to the spare bedroom.
In bed, I don’t allow myself to fall asleep right away.
I don’t deserve the pleasures of a peaceful slumber, especially not tonight.
It feels wrong to be enveloped in a comfy bed while Bethany is likely sleeping on a paper-thin mattress in the Focus Facility, fearing for her life.
I can’t help but think that it’s because of me that Bethany is in such a situation.
I should’ve stood up for her, fought Mr Thistle-twat’s decision to exclude a plea of insanity.
I shouldn’t have acquiesced so easily. But Mr Thistlethorn was the experienced advocate.
Who am I, with my limited courtroom experience, to question his choices?
I guess I’m not as brave as I thought I was. No wonder Tom didn’t feel happy in our relationship. No wonder he got rid of me. I’m weak, too afraid to question a superior’s erroneous decision. Who wants to spend the rest of their life with someone like that? Clearly, not Tom.
So, I’m not lying back, resting my weary head on a cosy pillow.
On the contrary, I’m sitting up, back pressed against the wooden headboard, with my laptop on my lap.
If I’m going to correct this mistake and keep up with Ben Kehoe – an advocate who’s already made his presence felt at the Court of Appeal – I’ll need to do my research.
I open Google and travel to the court’s website.
I navigate their menu and come to a page titled ‘The Court of Appeal – Appellate Processes’.
I study the webpage with stinging eyes and jot down notes concerning the appealing of a criminal conviction with a tired hand.
At this late hour of the night, my notes more closely resemble illegible scribbles; hopefully, I’ll be able to make sense of them when the time comes to do so.
With pages of information at the ready and in preparation for the day ahead, I start to make a plan.