Chapter 18
I appear before Judge Donnegan in the High Court on Monday morning.
Against all odds, Mr Foley’s case has made it to court.
Genuinely, I thought this case would be dismissed as soon as it crossed the judge’s desk.
The courtroom isn’t very full. No one cares for the intricacies of personal injuries claims; criminal law matters like murder and arson are far more interesting.
Apart from the required personnel – solicitors, barristers, clerks, registrars, judge, witnesses – there isn’t another soul present.
Mr Foley is sitting in the public gallery.
From where I’m seated, facing away from Judge Donnegan, I get an excellent view of my client.
Around his neck is a never-before-seen neck brace.
To really drive it home, he winces every time he shifts his position.
In fairness to Mr Foley, he’s putting on a great display.
The barrister I’m attending upon, Serena Woods BL, has confidence in Mr Foley’s claim.
She specialises in tort law and even gives lectures in it.
As she flicks through documents, she turns back to smile at Mr Foley every so often.
If this claim is successful, Serena will take a hefty percentage of the damages awarded.
Nevertheless, the respondent’s team look unphased.
The solicitor and barrister, a young man and young woman respectively, whisper to one another.
As they point at pieces of evidence that I cannot see, smug smirks fill their faces.
At one point, the barrister has to cover her mouth to prevent the emittance of laughter. I wonder what they have in there.
Judge Donnegan takes his seat. The clerk announces that the trial is about to start. Before Serena opens her mouth, a practiced speech likely at the tip of her tongue, the respondent’s barrister rises.
“Judge. My apologies for interrupting my learned friend Ms Woods. We have very recently become aware of new evidence in this case.”
“Please elaborate, Ms Farrell,” Judge Donnegan orders.
Ms Farrell accepts pages of documents from the solicitor. Meanwhile, Serena stays mute.
“Judge, the evidence that we are about to submit proves that the claimant, Mr Foley, has not fallen victim to all the ailments he has claimed to suffer from.” Ms Farrell hands photographs to the clerk, who then provides copies to Judge Donnegan, Serena and me.
I’m not surprised by what I see. In the photos, Mr Foley is lined up with a group of men. In their hands is a long, thick rope. Mr Foley and the other men are leaning back, tugging on the rope. The date stamp on the photo states that it was taken two days ago.
“As you can see, Judge, Mr Foley was participating in a tug-of-war competition over the weekend.” Ms Farrell nods to the solicitor. “And we also have video evidence of Mr Foley partaking in this activity.”
Everybody shifts to the edge of their seat as the video plays. The groans of the men as they pull against each other reverberate through the courtroom.
Serena leaps to her feet. “Judge, we were not given access to this video or these photographs prior to this hearing. Therefore, I cannot verify their credibility.”
“There’s no need for that,” Ms Farrell assures the court. “This video was taken from the claimant, Mr Foley’s, social media account.” Ms Farrell points at the video playing on the screen. “If you look in the top left corner, you’ll see the name Darren Foley.”
Everyone in the courtroom squints at the screen. Sure enough, Mr Foley’s name and photograph are right there.
“As such, we move to have this claim dismissed.”
Judge Donnegan focuses on Serena. “Ms Woods, do you have anything to add?”
Serena hesitates. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. Her hands are shaking as she scratches at her white barrister’s wig.
In the absence of a counterargument from Serena, Judge Donnegan rules. “The application for damages is denied. For wasting the court’s time, I order that all legal costs are to be paid by the claimant, Mr Foley.”
With Judge Donnegan’s ruling, the case is over.
The respondent’s team quietly celebrate their victory, whereas Serena and Mr Foley slump down in their seats in disgrace.
I stifle a superior smile of my own. Though my client lost, I was right when I told him that he wouldn’t win this claim.
It’s at times like this that I like to remind myself, I’m good at this job.
I go straight back to the office after the ruling is handed down.
Just before Mr Foley’s case got started, my phone pinged with an email from Dr Kenny.
As I make my way over the Liffey, my phone pings again.
I take a brief glance at my screen as I enter the office.
The second email has come from the HSE. I’m so impatient to read the emails, I almost sprint to my desk.
I trip over one of Melissa’s bags as I rush to open my laptop.
“Be careful, Nick.”
“Sorry,” I say, my eyes glued to the screen.
I open Dr Kenny’s email first. Like she promised, attached to the email is a full report of her assessment of Bethany’s sanity and fitness to be tried.
I skim through the report. There’s lots of psychological language that I do not understand and tonnes of text on methodological methods that I do not have time to learn.
When I get to the conclusion, I finally let go of the breath I’d been holding on to:
In conclusion, based on all of the above, it is my professional opinion that Bethany Murray was insane when she carried out the murder of her husband, Joe Murray.
Further, I believe that Mrs Murray is unfit to be tried in her current state.
As a matter of urgency, Mrs Murray should be removed from the Focus Facility and immediately admitted to the Central Mental Hospital.
Next, I open the email from the HSE employee.
Dear Mr Carthy,
I can confirm that Mrs Bethany Murray was referred to me by her GP. I can confirm that she suffers from a mental illness and has suffered from this illness for years.
I understand that you may wish to use this correspondence for the purposes of appealing Mrs Murray’s conviction. You have my consent to do so.
If you require anything further, please do not hesitate to get in contact with me.
Kind regards,
Dr Pauline Healy, MD, PsyD
Health Service Executive
The final piece of the puzzle has been placed.
Everything we need for Bethany’s appeal is now in our hands: decades of case law to use as precedent and confirmations of her mental illness from relevant persons.
I feel my hopes soar as high as the heavens.
Contentment bubbles inside me. I can barely conceal my delight.
I leap out of my swivel chair. “Yes!”
My actions garner strange looks from colleagues, Melissa included. “What’s got you so happy?”
With joy still rippling through me, I answer, “I’m getting Bethany Murray out of the Focus Facility. That’s what.”
Proud, Melissa pats me on the back.
There’s one other person that I need to share the news with: Ben. I text him.
We have updates in the Murray appeal. When are you free to discuss?
What are you doing tonight? Maybe we could go for dinner and talk it over?
It’s nice to know that my messages are being delivered to and read by Ben. Still, I already have plans for tonight with Brendan. I’m leaving the office early so we can go to the cinema in Gorey. Tickets are cheaper on Mondays.
How about tomorrow? Can you meet me at the office in the morning? We can spend the day working on the appeal and then grab something to eat if that suits you?
As I wait for his response, my hands grow clammy thanks to my nerves. Ben replies with a thumbs-up emoji.
“Nick, are you there? Can you hear me?” Bethany asks me.
I’ve just stepped off the train at Connolly station.
Usually, I’m in the office by now, but the train was delayed; apparently, a group of teenagers was seen walking on the train tracks.
I run through the barriers at Connolly and dart to the packed Luas.
I manage to squash myself onto the tram.
My tie almost gets caught in the closing doors.
Forcing my phone closer to my ear, I whisper, “Yes, Bethany. I can hear you.” I’m attempting to be as gentle as a fawn when speaking. “What’s the matter?”
Her voice is shaky. “When am I allowed to leave this place? Please let me leave.”
I shift to a more comfortable standing position on the Luas. I’m pressed against the doors that almost ate my tie. “Bethany… Do you remember who Ben is? You met him a few weeks ago. We told you about your appeal.”
Hesitantly, Bethany answers, “Yes.”
“Well, Ben and I are working really hard on your appeal. And if we’re successful, you’ll be allowed to leave.”
I don’t mention that she’ll be brought to a different facility instead. I imagine if I did, she wouldn’t react positively.
Hope rises in her voice. “So that means I’ll be allowed to leave this place?”
“Only if we’re successful, Bethany. We can’t guarantee anything. I can only tell you that Ben and I are working very hard to help you.”
I hear a voice snarl in the background, “If she doesn’t get off that bleedin’ phone soon, I’ll deck her!”
Prioritising Bethany’s safety, I immediately say, “I think it’s time for you to hang up the phone now, Bethany. It’s surely time for your breakfast if you haven’t had it already.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Bethany. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”
With a ringing resonating through my ear, I recognise that this appeal must be submitted as soon as possible. Bethany’s life isn’t safe in there, and I can’t imagine how bad her mental health is.
I arrive at the office twenty minutes late. Thankfully, I still manage to arrive before Mrs Adams, so I don’t have to worry about being placed on a Performance Improvement Plan. I’m also wearing a fresh, recently purchased grey plaid suit to ensure I appear professional enough to keep my job.