Chapter 29 Four Years After Bethany Murray’s Retrial
Four Years After Bethany Murray’s Retrial
I can confirm that O’Leary and Adams’s Dublin office is freezing this morning.
The radiators are only lukewarm, no artificial electric heaters have been turned on, and the shared open office area is useless at trapping heat.
It doesn’t help that, for the past two days, the entire country has been clutched in the icy grip of an unforgiving Arctic blast. It’s so bad that snow and ice are expected later in the day, and a weather warning has been issued for many counties across Ireland. Certainly, winter has arrived.
I’m sitting at my desk, my heavy coat still over my shoulders.
I’m wearing a three-piece grey suit too, so my body is wrapped in multiple layers.
Nevertheless, every so often, a shiver runs through my body.
Thankfully, because it’s still early, the office is empty save for me, so nobody else is around to witness my discomfort.
Wrapping my arms across my stomach to preserve heat, I lean back and let my mind wander.
I reminisce about the warm bed I was forced to leave this morning and the handsome sleeping man inside it.
The man who has been my own personal human radiator for almost five years now.
Ben Kehoe. I picture the steady rise and fall of his chest, hear his inconsistent snores that I’ve become accustomed to.
At these thoughts, a smile fills my face and joy briefly provides warmth to my shivering body.
Ben is working from home this morning. He’s not due in court until this afternoon, so he’s lucky enough to be blessed with a few more hours of sleep.
While I’m also due in court today, I don’t possess the same liberties as Ben.
For the past two years, Tuesdays have been a required office day at O’Leary and Adams, as decreed by Mrs Ursula Adams herself.
Because I’m still wary of her, and because I don’t want to be put on a Performance Improvement Plan, I make sure to respect this rule.
After all, I have half a mortgage to pay; I can’t afford to lose my steady income over something as minor as office attendance.
“Jesus Christ, it’s cold today,” Melissa exclaims. “I can’t feel my toes.”
With a heavy backpack and an assortment of tote bags weighing her down, she trudges to her desk. Her teeth clatter as she unpacks her bag. To my delight, she pulls a giant bar of chocolate from one of her tote bags and slides it in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say cheerily, accepting it with eager hands.
Melissa starts to remove her scarf, then comes to a sudden halt. Peering over me, she asks, “Is that radiator beside you on?”
I lean over and place my hand on the radiator. It’s still lukewarm, but it’s warmer than it was upon my last inspection. In time, please God, the radiator will be too warm to touch. I relay this hope to Melissa.
She chews the inside of her cheek. “It better. If they’re forcing us to come in every Tuesday, the absolute least they can do is turn on the heating.”
“Preach,” I agree.
Even though it hasn’t yet reached nine a.m., I dig in to the chocolate bar.
Melissa reluctantly sets her grievances aside with an elongated exhale, then takes her seat. She swivels her chair closer to the desk, cracks her neck, and runs her fingers through her beautiful strands of honey-blonde hair.
“You’re due in court today, right?” she asks, while her laptop boots to life.
I let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Why? Do you need me to file anything for you while I’m there?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” Melissa smirks at me. It’s an interesting smirk, almost conspiratorial, like she knows something that I do not. She continues, “I was wondering if you’d be bumping into Ben?”
“I’d say so. He’s due in court later today so it’s very likely our paths will cross.”
Melissa’s smile deepens. What in hell is going on with her?
“Well, make sure to tell him I was asking after him,” she says.
I want to interrogate Melissa, ask her why she’s acting so strange, but as I hear the telltale ping of an email coming into my inbox, I glance over and realise it’s about today’s case, and reading it is a matter of urgency.
Setting aside my desire to question Melissa like a detective, I turn back to my laptop screen.
The matter before the court today concerns arson.
Our client, Mr Henry Halligan, is accused of causing criminal damage to an IPAS centre following an anti-migrant protest on the outskirts of Dublin.
The State alleges that Mr Halligan knowingly threw a petrol bomb into the IPAS accommodation centre, resulting in significant damage to the building.
The State also intended to pursue attempted murder charges against Mr Halligan due to the fact that the IPAS accommodation centre was full to capacity at the time.
However, they later dropped this charge for reasons that are still unknown to us.
In contrast, we – the defence – contend that Mr Halligan did not commit the acts that he is accused of.
He was not present for the protest and he did not throw a petrol bomb.
In fact, we intend to argue that this is a clear case of mistaken identity.
The email has come from Judge Gallagher’s clerk, Amanda.
She’s new to her role, so I’ve only dealt with her a handful of times.
In her email, she outlines that one of the required files appears to be missing from the evidence.
It’s an important file, one that the jury must see: it’s CCTV footage proving that Mr Halligan was nowhere near the scene of the crime when it is alleged to have taken place.
Instead of being at the protest or outside the burning building, Mr Halligan was at a Circle K in Gorey, County Wexford, two counties away from the protest and the IPAS centre.
Admittedly, I do not like Mr Halligan. He’s racist, arrogant, and likes to stir up hatred against migrant communities on Facebook.
Alas, I have a job to do. Even if he is a despicable human being, he’s still entitled to legal representation.
And because he’ll be paying a hefty fee for my services, I’ll do my job to the best of my ability.
As quickly as I can, I scour O’Leary and Adams’s shared drive in search of the CCTV footage. It takes a moment, but I find it in the end. With my heart still pumping from my panicked search, I hit send on the return email to Amanda. Once it’s sent, I heave a sigh of relief.
Before I can turn away and distract Melissa, my phone lights up.
A letter came for you. Do you want me to open it?
Go ahead. It’s probably either a bill or something from Revenue.
A few minutes later, Ben replies:
It’s from Revenue. You owe them €55.62 in tax.
Rolling my eyes, I reply:
Shit.
For the rest of the morning, I begrudgingly sort out my issue with Revenue, print some documents for court, and respond to emails.
Thankfully, as I’d hoped, the office has warmed up, so much so that I’m starting to fall asleep.
Whenever I feel like I’m about to nod off, I force myself to sit up and stare at the gentle waves on the River Liffey.
Sadly, I won’t be absorbing this warmth for much longer. When lunchtime rolls around, I pack up my things and brace myself for the wave of cold I’ll be hit with once I leave O’Leary and Adams’s Office. My destination: the Criminal Courts of Justice.
The barrister I’m attending upon today is Jane Keely, a kind woman that I’ve developed an incredible rapport with.
When she first heard that Ben and I had moved in together, she bought us a set of expensive cutlery, and when she heard that Ben and I had successfully purchased the property after a strenuous bidding war, she offered to buy us a new kitchen table.
About ten minutes ago, Jane texted to say that she’d be a few minutes late. There’s been a medical emergency at Abbey Street Luas Stop, and as a result, all tram services have been delayed or suspended entirely – a common occurrence in Dublin City that I’m sure will be cleared up soon.
Always an early bird, I arrive to the Criminal Courts of Justice ten minutes earlier than intended.
To pass the time until Jane arrives, I take my phone out and scroll.
One news story in particular captures my interest. A doctor has been arrested on suspicion of multiple murders.
All of his victims were members of the LGBTQ+ community, and shockingly, each was killed at exactly 18:22.
The media have dubbed the doctor ‘The 18:22 Murderer’ and his crimes ‘The 18:22 Murders’.
As I come to the end of the news article, I feel a hand grasp my shoulder, firm but tender. It startles me, and I almost fumble my phone out of my hands.
“Hey there,” Ben says, his voice as deep and enticing as ever.
Turning around to face him, an excited spark runs through my body.
My Ben. He’s beautiful, from the mop of messy dark curls at the top of his head to the perfectly tailored dark suit that highlights the beauties of his body.
To top it all off, he too is wearing his cerulean tie.
Even now, almost five years later, I marvel at the sight of him.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Would you be so kind as to show me to the robing room, sir?” Ben jokes. “I need to get into my garments.”
I chuckle and point behind me. “Just through those double doors, sir.”
We share a laugh, though as the sound trails off, Ben’s demeanour becomes somewhat timid – unusual for him.
“Are we, um… still on for tonight?” he asks hesitantly.
I don’t know why he’s asking. We’ve had this dinner date booked for weeks, and spoke about it as recently as last night. Why does he look so nervous? I wonder. We’ve been together for almost five years; I’m not going to ghost him now.
“Of course, I’m looking forward to it.” I beam at him, hoping my chipper tone will evoking the same feeling in Ben.
He releases the tension in his shoulders alongside the breath he’s been holding on to. “Great.”