Chapter 23 It’ll all be fine.
Friday morning arrives in the blink of an eye. All day yesterday, Ben and I prepared for Bethany’s appeal hearing. I’ve read through so many files that there’s a stabbing pain behind my eyes even this morning. The bruise at my temple has started to fade, so too have the bruises on my stomach.
Ben doesn’t fry eggs. Instead, we eat cereal. However, I merely play with my breakfast, dipping the spoon in and out of my bowl. I can’t eat. I’m too nervous. Anxiety thrums across my body. I’m shaking. There’s a tight ache in the centre of my chest. Cold sweat coats my skin.
In contrast, Ben doesn’t seem to feel this way. He’s horsing down his breakfast, spoonful after spoonful. Every so often, before inhaling another spoonful, he winks at me. His leg isn’t even bouncing beneath the table.
“How are you able to eat?” I ask him, my voice quivering.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You should really try to eat something.”
I look at the bowl in front of me. It’s full to the brim. If I were to eat any of it, I’d throw up right away. “I can’t.”
I step away from the table and start to pace around the kitchen. The tiles are cold beneath my feet.
“Can you stop pacing, please?” Ben requests.
I stop in front of his oven. While my legs have stopped moving, I start to move a new part of my body. I shake my hands and wriggle my toes. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—”
Ben rises. He slowly makes his way over to me, holds my trembling arms, and then envelops me. He rests his chin on my forehead. I press my ear to his heart and listen to the smooth, consistent thumps.
“It’ll be alright,” Ben soothes. “Everything will be alright.”
“Thank you.” My voice is muffled by his chest.
“It’ll all be fine.”
Ben and I get dressed together. Ben puts on a suit that’s as dark as his curly hair, while I throw on a suit that’s as grey as smoke. Nervousness is still causing my limbs to rattle, so much so that Ben has to tie my tie. It’s cerulean in colour.
“I have an idea.” Ben kisses my forehead.
I keep my jaw locked to prevent my teeth from clattering.
When he doesn’t receive a reply from me, Ben proceeds. “Why don’t we wear the same colour tie. Show some solidarity. Show them that we’re a team.”
I approve by offering a single nod.
Ben roots around in a drawer. After a few seconds, he pulls out a cerulean tie.
I ogle him as he arranges it around his neck.
I can’t believe I’m here. In Ben’s bedroom.
Watching as he gets ready for work. What makes this situation even more surreal is the fact that I’ve been here for the past two nights, sharing his bed, sharing his shower, sharing his home.
I replay his words in my mind: You’re all I want.
Ben whirls around to face me. He secures the knot at his neck. “Ready to go?” he asks.
I take a moment. I shut my eyes, steady my breaths, and relax my muscles. Once I’ve expelled the air in my lungs, I reply, “I’m ready.”
Ben guides me to the passenger seat of his pickup. Kindly, he waits until I’ve put on my seatbelt before reversing out of his driveway. As he’s backing up, he caringly places his hand on my shaking leg.
“We’ll be alright,” he whispers.
I give him a constricted smile. With matching ties hanging from our necks and Ben’s heavy right foot on the accelerator, we set off for the Criminal Courts of Justice.
It’s a media circus outside the Criminal Courts of Justice.
Groups of journalists and their crews, armed with cameras and microphones, line the streets outside.
There’s a mob of them. Even the overcast, dull, showery day doesn’t stop them.
They’re likely here to take footage of Bethany as she is transferred from the Garda van into the courts.
They probably want to find out as much as they can about the grounds for appeal too. Vultures.
Ben parks at the Criminal Courts of Justice.
For the entire journey here, my right leg has not stopped bouncing, like a needle in a sewing machine.
Now, sitting in Ben’s pickup, I feel a weight of anxiety pressing on my chest; it robs me of my breath every now and then.
My armpits are sticky with perspiration. I feel so uncomfortable.
Ben pulls up the handbrake. “Hey.” He presents his open palm, just like he did after Melissa’s birthday party. “Here.”
I wrap my hand in his, my fingers trembling. Once our fingers are woven together, Ben gives a gentle squeeze. Then he hauls my hand up to his beautiful lips. He plants a delicate kiss on my knuckle.
“We’ll be fine,” he says. “Everything will be fine.”
I close my eyes and count my breaths. Bethany needs me to be at my best today. Ben needs me to be at my best today.
After a few quiet seconds, Ben informs me, “It’s almost time. Should we head inside?”
With my other hand, I pinch my thigh. I exhale. “Let’s go.”
Because Ben has to change into his barrister’s robes and wig, I make my way to the courtroom alone.
Before I’ve entered the courtroom, I already know it is packed.
I can hear the hustle and bustle of a swarm of persons from yards away.
Pushing open the heavy courtroom doors, I notice that the public gallery is full to capacity, a total contrast to the near-empty courtroom in Mr Foley’s personal injury case.
Journalists, podcasters, and members of the public are squashed into the narrow benches; their bodies are contorted in grotesque, uncomfortable-looking ways. I walk past them to reach my position.
The clerk, Ms Caroline Conway, is seated just behind me.
She’s typing angrily on her computer. It almost sounds as if gunshots are ringing through the room as she types.
Her dark hair is beginning to grey. She’s dressed in all-black attire.
The only other colour on her person comes from her shiny silver necklace.
The Director or Public Prosecutions’ team is already here.
The prosecuting barrister, Ms Victoria Ahern, and the prosecution’s solicitor, Mr Brian Murphy, are chatting with one another.
It appears that Mr Murphy is briefing Ms Ahern on aspects of the appeal; this is a core function of a solicitor.
Oddly, as I scrutinise them, Ms Ahern smiles widely at me.
No barrister working for the opposition has ever done this to me before.
It unnerves me, and my gut cramps slightly because of it.
As I wait for Ben to arrive, I play with my cerulean tie between my fingers.
Ben strolls in a few minutes later. Even when his beautiful curls are hidden beneath that awful wig, he looks stunning. He takes his seat facing the judges’ bench. As he starts sifting through documents, he winks at me.
“You okay?” he mimes.
I’m sitting on my hands to stop them from shaking. I still feel like I’m going to be sick, but thankfully, there isn’t anything in my stomach for me to throw up. Putting on a brave face, I nod back.
Bethany is the next to arrive. She’s escorted in by a familiar prison officer from the Focus Facility.
This officer’s presence is welcome. If needed, she can attest to Bethany’s mental state, from when she arrived at the Focus Facility on remand to the present day.
Today, Bethany looks better than the last time I saw her.
Her hair isn’t in knots, her face is free from scratches, her skin doesn’t look as tight under her eyes, and her frame doesn’t look as fragile.
As she’s taking her seat, I relive her last court appearance.
The court is just as full as it was on that day.
The day where one single word almost cemented Bethany’s fate: ‘Guilty’.
The thought sends uneasy feelings through me.
I remind myself, This is what we’re here to rectify.
When my eyes meet Bethany’s, she gives a small smile.
The final court actors to arrive are the three judges: Judge John Kennedy, Judge Avril Barry, and Judge Martina Murphy.
They take their seats at the bench, presiding over the full courtroom.
Judge Kennedy sits in the middle, with Judge Barry and Judge Murphy on either side of him.
When Ms Conway, the clerk, calls for everyone to retake their seats, the appeal hearing begins.
Judge Kennedy’s voice is the first to shatter the silence. “Mr Kehoe.” His voice is loud, clear. It fills the already-full room. “As the barrister bringing forth this application for permission to appeal, I invite you to speak first.”
Cool and calculated, Ben rises to his feet. As he does so, he directs a subtle nod at me. He fixes his robes and repositions his wig. Then, he makes his way to the microphone in front of him. As he is about to commence his speech, everyone in the public gallery leans forwards in their seats.
“May it please The Court,” Ben begins. He then waits for Judge Kennedy to commence his questioning.
“We have had the opportunity to review all submissions in this case,” Judge Kennedy outlines. “Please summarise your arguments for us, Mr Kehoe.”