Chapter 25
It’s Monday morning. The day of the decision.
I’m on the train from Gorey to Dublin. It’s quiet for now, but as we get closer to Dublin, it will undoubtedly start to fill up.
The sun has yet to commence its ascent into the sky; this leaves a dark blue hue over the morning.
Thankfully, I snagged myself a window seat.
I love to watch the sun rising in the mornings.
I love how its beams spring into the sky, obliterating the darkness with light.
Because it’s still dark, I’m hunched over my laptop.
I’m using my phone’s personal hotspot because the Wi-Fi is awful on the train.
Granted, my hotspot is slow; at least it works.
There’s lots of news about Bethany in the media.
There are articles, news segments, blog posts, almost everything imaginable.
Like Brendan said on Friday night, the public seem to have much more sympathy for Bethany at the present moment.
No longer are articles headlined ‘Husband Killer. Find Out Three Shocking Facts About Bethany Murray and her Thirst for Blood’, or ‘Bethany Murray: A Psychopath that we Should all be Afraid of’, appearing across the country.
Instead, today’s titles read ‘A Fight for Justice: Will Bethany Murray Finally be Placed in the Appropriate Mental Health Facility?’ and ‘How the Criminal Justice System Fails the Mentally Ill: An Exploration of the Case of Bethany Murray’.
It’s positive to see these writings. Reading these words, understanding the empathy that people now have for Bethany, it makes me realise that Ben and I did a good job.
We worked efficiently as a team. We worked together.
People are actually listening to us. I feel a peep of happiness glow inside me.
I allow myself to read one more piece. The train has just departed from Dún Laoghaire station, meaning there’s only about twenty minutes left in my journey to Connolly.
The blog post, which comes from a gossipy type of blog, is titled ‘Who is the Barrister Advocating for Bethany Murray? Who is Ben Kehoe?’ Underneath the headline is a picture I saw weeks ago, the picture that acted as my reintroduction to Ben Kehoe: Ben and his recently freed client, standing outside the steps of the Criminal Courts of Justice.
This time when I look at Ben, I do not scowl or sense my blood simmering with rage.
Rather, when I look at his wide, smug grin and his gorgeous, inviting eyes, I only feel joy.
The feeling flows through me, cheering my soul.
The blog post doesn’t tell me anything that I do not already know.
It says that Ben grew up in Westmeath, attended Dublin University, successfully completed the Degree of Barrister-at-Law in King’s Inns.
Standard, basic information that is easily gleaned from his social media profiles.
At the end of the post, the author adds one final detail about Ben.
One that cannot be denied or disputed. ‘It is clear that Ben Kehoe will fight hard to correct any wrongs within the criminal justice system. While I applaud his intentions, I cannot complete this post without mentioning the elephant in the room. Ben Kehoe is very easy on the eye.’
That he is, I agree. That he is.
My phone pings when I step off the train. I scoop it out of my breast pocket as soon as I feel the vibrations. The text is from Melissa.
What suit did you decide to wear?
Giving my ensemble a quick once-over, I respond.
The plaid grey one. With a white shirt underneath.
What colour is your tie?
Cerulean. Just like Friday.
I’m unsure if Ben is wearing his cerulean tie too. For the purposes of showing solidarity, I hope he is.
That’s fabulous.
I don’t reply right away because three dancing dots are informing me that Melissa has something else to say.
I’m on my way to court now. I’ll hopefully be in the public gallery by the time you get there. I don’t want to miss this.
Sitting in the courtroom is like déjà vu.
It’s almost identical to how it was on Friday.
The public gallery is full to capacity. The only notable difference in the public gallery is that Melissa and Mr O’Leary are there.
They’re squashed between a journalist that once called Bethany a ‘monster’ and a true crime podcaster I recognise from my music app.
When Melissa and I catch a glimpse of each other, we wave.
“Good luck,” Melissa mouths.
Ms Caroline Conway, the clerk, is seated behind me, typing violently on her computer.
Every so often, she coughs into her elbow.
When she does so, I turn my face away from her; I don’t want to contract whatever she has.
Representing the DPP, Ms Victoria Ahern and Mr Brian Murphy are to my left.
They’re chitchatting with one another, but it doesn’t seem to be about the case.
Neither of them is rifling through mountains of documents.
Uncharacteristically, I stand up and go over to them.
As soon as I reach them, they end their conversation and turn to me.
With their wide eyes locked onto me, my voice quivers slightly when I say, “I just wanted to say thanks for Friday. It really means a lot that the DPP supports our application for an appeal.”
Ms Ahern is the first to reply. “You’re welcome, Mr Carthy. Like I said on Friday, the DPP isn’t interested in locking people up when a mental health facility is more appropriate to their needs.”
Mr Murphy chimes in. “It’s a pity this wasn’t mentioned during the original trial proceedings.”
At hearing this – a statement of my failings – my head droops. Thoughts of Mr Thistle-twat’s harsh words swirl around my mind. ‘I will not hear talk of “insanity” again. Have I made myself clear?’
“But at least it was brought up in the end,” Ms Ahern comments. “Hopefully all will be corrected by the end of the day.”
With that, I thank them one more time and then return to my seat.
Ben is the next to enter the courtroom. I do my best to peer through his barrister’s robes.
I want to know if he’s wearing his cerulean tie.
As he’s taking his seat, he clocks my scrutiny.
At seeing this, he tugs on the collar of his robe.
With a wink, he exposes the knot of his cerulean tie.
A dizzy, satisfied happiness blooms inside me.
Ben marches over to me. Sadly, his tempting body is hidden beneath his robes; his wonderful curls are hidden beneath a wig.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Honestly, I’m not nearly as nervous as I was on Friday. My stomach isn’t empty. I don’t feel like I need to vomit. My skin isn’t glazed over with anxious sweat. Still, there is a nervous butterfly sitting inside me. I pray that it doesn’t start worriedly flapping its wings anytime soon.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
Ben gives a brief, sinful smile. Then, he reaches over me, like he’s trying to retrieve something from behind me. But there isn’t anything there save for the front of the clerk’s desk.
With his hand placed against the wooden desk, Ben whispers, “I’m much better now that I’ve seen you.” The warmth of his breath prickles my ear. “Do you want to come over tonight?” he asks quietly.
I bask in the comfort of the tickle. “Sure.”
Straightening, he says, “Looking forward to it.”
Bethany and the prison officer are next to arrive. Bethany doesn’t look any worse or any better than she did on Friday. Her hair is straightened, her face is full, and her eyes are not filled with tears. Moments after Bethany is seated, Ms Conway instructs us to ‘All rise’.
Here we go.
Judge Kennedy, Judge Barry and Judge Murphy enter the courtroom.
They take their seats at the bench. When Ms Conway says ‘Be seated’, we resume our earlier positions.
As I’m sitting back down, the nervous butterfly in me flaps one of its wings.
In response, I clench my core muscles, hoping to appease it. It doesn’t work.
Judge Kennedy’s powerful, authoritative voice rips through the room.
“We all know why we are here today, so I will make this hearing as brief as I can. In the matter of the Director of Public Prosecutions versus Murray, we have reached a unanimous decision on the application for permission to appeal. Upon review of the submissions, evidence, and oral arguments presented to this Court, we believe that Mrs Bethany Murray may not have received a fair trial. This is due to the fact that the issue of her mental state was not raised during her original trial. It is clear that Mrs Murray may have been suffering from a mental illness at the time of this crime’s commission.
It is our opinion, upon review of the medical evidence submitted, that Mrs Murray may satisfy all of the criteria for legal insanity as provided for in statute.
Furthermore, it is also our opinion that Mrs Murray may have been unfit to be tried in the first place.
” Judge Kennedy clears his throat. The sound of it echoes through the room.
He continues. “As such, our decision on this matter is unanimous. The application for permission to appeal is granted.”
Cheers and clapping erupt in the courtroom. Ms Conway quickly orders silence. Once the cheering comes to an end, Judge Kennedy rules.
“We order that Mrs Murray receive a new trial. We further urge that her defence counsel ensure the issue of her mental state is raised during this trial, whether that be in the form of an insanity defence or questioning her fitness to be tried. Owing to her current mental state, we order that Mrs Murray be removed from the Focus Facility and taken to the Central Mental Hospital where her fitness to be tried can be established. Only then should a new trial date be scheduled.”
Judge Kennedy looks to his right and then to his left. He receives a nod from Judge Barry and Judge Murphy. With that, the three judges leave the courtroom.
Inside the courtroom, I had to remain composed.
Now, however, while standing on the steps of the Criminal Courts of Justice, I leap with joy.
I’ve already spoken with Bethany and detailed the next steps to her.
After I told her that she will not be returning to the Focus Facility, a relieved smile that I’d never seen before filled her face.
‘Thank you, Nick’, she said. ‘Thank you’.
Unfortunately, I didn’t catch Melissa before she had to head to a different courtroom. In lieu of seeing each other, she sent a text screaming ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ The text was accompanied by an assortment of party emojis.
We did it. Ben and I did it. We saved Bethany.
Pure excitement runs through my veins, soothing the anxious butterfly that once sat in my stomach.
I cannot supress a humungous, proud smile from forming on my face.
I’m grinning from ear to ear. My cheeks are pulled upwards so tightly that there’s an ache starting to develop at the back of my head.
Alas, this joyous reaction will prove to be my downfall.
Forgetting myself in my glee, I attempt to wrap my arms around Ben in celebration. As I do so, he steps back, frightened. When I step forwards, he steps back again, terrified.
“Ben?” I say, surprised.
“No, Nick,” he barks. His eyes travel around our surroundings, taking in all of the people – legal personnel, accused criminals, the media, curious members of the public – that are looking at us. Grimly, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
My eyes dart around the exterior of the Criminal Courts of Justice.
Suddenly, it feels like everyone is watching me.
The weight of their gazes is suffocating; I feel like I can’t breathe.
My tie is too tight. My shirt collar is too tight.
I’m panting for air. My earlier happiness rots away, replaced by the calloused hands of shame.
Fear is clawing up my throat. I need to get out of here.
It dawns on me. If I choose to stay with Ben, this is what the rest of my life will look like.
Hiding. Just like it was with Tom’s parents.
I don’t want to do that all over again. It almost broke me the first time.
God only knows what it’ll do to me for the second time.
I didn’t come out of a closet to go right back into one.
I know I said I could wait for Ben. I know I said that it felt different.
But maybe I can’t wait for him; maybe it didn’t feel different at all.
Stealing kisses and holding hands in the darkness is tolerable at the start of a relationship.
However, slowly, over time, these clandestine actions can ruin you.
You lose your self-worth, you grow to hate yourself more and more for tolerating such behaviour, and you struggle to understand how someone can say they love you while hiding you away at the same time. I know all about this.
It isn’t fair on Ben either. If he’s not ready to decide who he is, I’m not going to be the one that forces him to do so. And I’ll make damn sure that I’m not the one that outs him. If that means getting far away to protect his secret, I’ll do it. I’ll do it for him.
I drop my arms and hang my head. “I’m sorry too, Ben.”
I run down the Criminal Court of Justice’s steps and sprint towards the nearest Luas stop.
As I’m waiting for the next tram to arrive, rain starts to spill from the sky.
A cold breeze passes over me. Tears are threatening to spill from my eyes.
My heart feels empty, like someone has jabbed a blade into it, twisted it, and then spilled out the contents.
Shivering as another breeze rushes by, I fish my phone from my breast pocket and ring Brendan. I need to hear his familiar voice.
“Are you at home?” I blurt before he’s even had a chance to say hello.
“Yes. Is everything okay?”
“I’ll be home early,” I say through the lump in my throat. “I’m on my way now.”
“Okay, Nicky. I’ll see you soon.”
Blinking hard, I choke out, “Thank you.”
Squishing myself onto the busy Luas, I realise I won’t be going over to Ben’s house tonight.