Chapter 9
Melissa isn’t in the office on Tuesday morning.
She’s in court, making submissions in the Cosgrove case before Judge Kearney.
Because she’s appearing before Judge Kearney, she’ll probably be stuck in court all day.
He likes to ask a lot of questions and overexplain the reasoning for all his decisions.
I’m sitting at my desk, all alone. Dublin seems to be bathing in the sun’s warming rays.
I’m dressed in a baby-pink shirt, and my blue trousers match my blue tie.
Though the fabric of my shirt is thin, I can still feel patches of sweat forming at my armpits.
But the sweat isn’t coming solely from the warmth.
It’s a response to the trepidation I feel about what the day may hold in store for me; the fear of having to see Ben Kehoe.
There’s one other person in the canteen: James Adams. He’s the son of Ursula Adams, and he likes to remind us of this fact whenever it is beneficial to him.
One time, he tried to use his parentage to force Melissa to do all his photocopying for him.
Another time, he tried to use it to force Rachel Shannon – an intern at the time – to go on a date with him.
I steer clear of James as much as I can.
He’s never had a nice word to say to me; I don’t have any nice words to say to him either.
If I stated my true feelings about him aloud, I’d be sacked within seconds.
I squeeze the teabag against the side of the mug, pressing out all the liquid that I can.
While adding a generous amount of milk, I spot a row of pastries on the other side of the canteen, far away from James.
I fly over to them like a moth to a lamp.
I search through stacks of almond croissants with the hopes of finding a chocolate one hidden somewhere.
When I eventually do, I rip it free from its prison and hold it up, triumphant.
If I’m going to survive another full day, I’ll need a sweet treat.
I trudge back up the stairs after I’ve downed my tea and devoured my croissant. As I approach my desk, I notice him. Standing at my desk. Loitering. There he is. Again.
He still hasn’t spotted me, so I take a minute to survey him from behind.
Today, he’s wearing a grey pinstripe three-piece suit.
His dark curls are shorter than they were yesterday, meaning he’s recently got his hair cut.
When he turns his head to the side, I can tell that his stubble is still carefully groomed.
As painful as it is to admit, Ben looks well.
I look at the clock on the wall before I go to him. It’s 9:00 on the dot.
“Good to see you, Ben,” I force out.
Even though I’ve come up on him from behind, Ben doesn’t jump.
“Nick,” he says, totally unphased. “Good to see you too. I was just admiring your desk. It’s very… colourful.”
The only pops of colour on my desk come from sticky notes, flashcards and a jar of pens. Save for these items, the desk is practically empty. I groan to myself instead of replying.
I don’t take a seat in front of Ben; there’s no point. “I’ve booked us a conference room for the day.” I reach over and grab my laptop, notebook, and the notes I prepared last night from my ‘colourful’ desk. As I do so, Ben just watches me. Then I order, “Follow me.”
Ben picks up his branded briefcase – it probably cost more than my tiny car – and follows my orders.
We don’t speak to each other on the short journey to the conference room.
We aren’t even walking side by side. I’m in front, leading the way, while Ben is behind me, looking at God knows what.
Barristers aren’t allowed to join legal firms or unite to create legal partnerships either.
A distinct feature of a barrister’s profession is that they are independent and self-employed.
Thus, seeing a space such as this may be new territory for Ben.
I hold open the weighty door. “We’re just in here.” I use my hands to usher him in faster.
Ben looks around the room. His brows are knitted together and his lips are somewhat puckered. “It’s a big room.” He’s counting the chairs dotted in a circle around the giant wooden desk in the centre. “Perfect for sixteen people, apparently.”
“Yep.” I sigh, plonking my materials onto the desk.
“And there’s only going to be two of us. Seems like a bit of a waste of resources in my opinion.”
There it is. Ben’s true, critique-filled colours. We haven’t even started working on Bethany’s appeal, and he’s already criticised one of my choices. Prick.
I think of Bethany and subdue my irritation by biting my lip. “Please take a seat, Ben.”
Thankfully, he does as I instruct. He sits down beside me, shuts up, and takes out his laptop and a faded yellow legal pad.
Silence sits between us as we wait for our laptops to power on.
I wish I could look into Ben’s mind, deduce what he’s thinking about.
I wonder if he is thinking about what I’m thinking about: the last time we saw each other before yesterday, outside Brendan’s and my tiny student apartment, saying our goodbyes to one another.
And then, what happened after the goodbyes.
No, I cannot think of that. I must push all those thoughts away.
I’m here for Bethany. Winning this appeal is my top priority.
While my laptop slowly boots up, I study the notes and the plan I made last night.
In my opinion, it’s pretty solid and clearly outlines the steps involved in the appealing of a criminal conviction: filing a Notice of Appeal with the court; planning the actual case for an appeal; the hearing of the case; and then the delivering of the Court of Appeal’s decision.
For each of these steps, I have plans drafted for how we should best approach the forming of our argument and what topics we should consider when researching.
“Right,” I say to Ben to grab his attention.
He looks up from his laptop, nodding for me to continue.
I take my notebook and position the plan I’d concocted between us. “So, I made a little plan for us to follow. I think we should—”
Ben scoffs. “Jesus, Nick Carthy. You’re still wasting your time with planning, I see.”
Pity the plan won’t get you any marks.
He pushes my notebook away. “Look, the way I see it is like this. If it’s supposed to happen, it’ll happen. You can’t waste time making a plan. It’s better if we just get started and cross certain bridges when we come to them.”
“But—”
“I have experience with the Court of Appeal, Nick. I know what we have to do.” He closes my notebook, my plan, and hands it back to me. “I was successful, and I never made a plan. I think they’re a total waste of time, to be honest.”
At first, I’m too stunned to speak. I can’t believe he’s talking to me like this, belittling me. My hand is slightly trembling when I take my notebook back.
“Why plan to do something when you could just do it is all I’m saying,” Ben adds.
Then my shock turns to fury, like angry, raging lava is flooding through me. I grind my teeth and squeeze the pen I’m holding. I’m ready to lash out, scream that I cannot do this, cannot do this with him. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew we couldn’t work together. So, why did I agree to it?
That’s when I think of Bethany. I’m doing this for her. The awful image of her confused face as the jury foreman read out the guilty verdict flickers before me. I free the pen from my grip and release my tensed jaw.
Grin and bear it.
“Fine. No plan.”
“Should we get to work then?” Ben asks, smirking at his victory.
I want to punch his smug face but, instead, sit on my hand until the desire subsides.
With that, the work for Bethany Murray’s appeal officially starts. And there’s no plan to guide it. We spend most of the morning working in silence. Ben does his thing while I do mine. The silence is broken here and there to discuss relevant facts of the case.
“So, we’re appealing the conviction by saying she was insane?” Ben asks.
“That’s a pretty blunt way to put it, but yeah. I don’t think she was in her right mind when she committed the crime. And I don’t think she was fit to be tried either.”
“Why didn’t you say this to the original barrister?” Ben asks curtly. “Would’ve been a lot easier than waiting to bring it up at an appeal.”
I can’t control myself. I cannot bury my frustration. “I did say it,” I snap back. “I did say it. And Mr Thistle-twat didn’t want to hear it.” I’m so angry that I forget myself and call Mr Thistlethorn a rude name.
Grinning, Ben asks, “Did you just call him ‘Mr Thistle-twat’?”
“No,” I lie. I sink into my chair, desperate to hide myself. I shouldn’t have called a senior colleague such a disparaging name.
“I think you did.”
“I didn’t.” I sink further into my chair.
The weight of the world falls from my shoulders when Ben laughs. “He is a bit of a twat, to be fair.”
“Isn’t he?”
Ben laughs again. This time, his chuckles do not irritate me. It’s actually nice to hear them.
We get back to work after that. Ben interrupts the quiet to explain the Notice of Appeal Form to me.
Seemingly, it must be filed within twenty-eight days of the conviction being handed down and requires Bethany’s signature before we can file it – a key requirement that I must have missed when researching, last night.
As a result, I make a booking request to see Bethany in the Focus Facility for later this week.
Hopefully, she’ll be competent enough to sign the form when I see her.