‘No. No. No. It’s beyond a joke now,’ Joy said, whipping her hand away.
Nancy raised an eyebrow.
‘Bitch. You wanna keep getting your fix of this,’ she said, the joint pinched between her lips, ‘then you need to play this little game with me. C’mon… when’s the last time you had an orgasm at the hands of somebody else, huh?’
Nancy took the joint from her mouth and leaned forward to press her lips against Joy’s.
‘No,’ Joy said, shaking her head, ‘no kissing. I’m not gay. I don’t wanna kiss.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Nancy said. ‘No kissing.’
Then she gently took Joy’s hand again, pressed it down to her groin and gingerly – very gingerly – curled her finger against Joy’s until the tip of Joy’s finger flexed inside her.
‘Ye know where the office is from here, don’tcha?’ Mathilda asked. Joy didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she continued to the end of the landing, slodging like a grumpy teenager, until she eventually turned into the Governor’s office.
But sitting there, at the Governor’s large desk, wasn’t the Governor himself. This man was, like the Governor, middle-aged, but he dressed entirely differently. He was wearing a pinstriped navy suit and a super shiny pair of brown leather shoes. He uncrossed his legs, grinned a smug smile at Joy and then got to his feet.
‘Am I pleased to see you,’ he said. He held his hand out for her to shake, but she was too taken by his leathery orange face that she failed to notice. So, she just frowned while he awkwardly put his hand back into his suit trouser pocket.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘My name is Gerd Bracken,’ he said.
❖
Delia brushes down the creases on the front of her robe before pulling at her office door.
‘Morning,’ she calls to Aisling.
‘Morning, Judge Delia,’ Aisling replies. ‘Another big day today, huh?’
‘Oh, aren’t they all? I’ve just been going through my notes and there’s going to be written statements offered to the court today, as well as a key piece of evidence. Can you collect them all for me and have them back in my office by the time I return? I’ll need to analyse that paperwork as soon as I’m done in the courtroom.’
Aisling smiles, then nods her head.
‘Course I will.’
Delia mouths a ‘thank you’ to her assistant while squeezing the side of her shoulder, then she paces down the corridor. When she turns the corner, the young woman dressed in all black greets her from afar with a shy wave. Then she opens up the court’s side door and nods into it before a bellow of ‘all rise’ is shouted.
Delia doesn’t have to stare over the rim of her glasses to know the gallery is already packed as she climbs the three steps to her highchair, because she can already tell by the rumbling and mumbling. There seems to be a buzz circulating the room. She can never really predict what ambience is going to be present in a courtroom on any given day. Though she was well aware that yesterday’s contrasting testimonies from Shay Stapleton and Lavinia Kirwan must have played havoc with everybody’s opinions. They had certainly played havoc with hers. That and the fact that everybody knows this entire case all comes down to the coincidence of somebody walking near the scene of the crime wearing the exact same hoodie Joy had owned, and that coincidence was finally going to be examined today.
Delia eyeballs Joy over the rim of her glasses then looks to Jonathan Ryan and nods.
‘Mr Ryan, can you call your next witness?’
‘I can indeed, Your Honour. The prosecution call Tobias Masterson to the stand.’
Masterson’s suit looks at least two sizes too large for him as he sweeps his way down the aisle to a sea of synchronised swivelling heads on both sides of the gallery. He has a lacklustre presence, like that of a clichéd geek, what with his round John Lennon-style specs sitting loose on his pointed nose and his tie hanging below his nether regions – ironic given that he is the managing director of Pennsylvania’s largest fashion distributor.
‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’ the court clerk asks as Masterson stands, awkwardly fidgeting, in the witness box.
‘I do.’
‘Mr Masterson, can you state your occupation for the court, please?’ Ryan asks when the witness has sat.
‘Sure. I run the company PeppaTrue – we are a stockists and distribution company based outta Pennsylvania.’ Masterson spoke with a high-pitch nasal squeal, as if somebody was constantly pinching his nose.
‘You stock fashionwear for some well-known high street stores, correct?’
‘We stock up to eighteen different retail brands throughout the United States.’
‘And you are managing director for the Pennsylvania branch of that company, yes?’
‘I am.’
‘And that company stock and supply Urban Outfitters with some of their fashion wear?’
‘We do.’
‘Did your company distribute the Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top in the early spring of 2005 to Urban Outfitters?’
‘We did.’
‘Interesting. And just for the record…’ Jonathan Ryan walks over to the television screen and presses at a button, ‘this hooded top, seen here in this footage…’ the screen blinks to the infamous three seconds of a figure walking into shot just outside a small residential garden, a mere one-thousand yards from where Oscar and Reese’s bodies were found some two years later, ‘is the Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top, right?’
‘We are without doubt certain it is. The Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top has distinct trimmings. They are all red. A red zip as is visible in the footage at some points; the red band at the waistline and the red band on each cuff are also visible on the footage at some points. On certain freeze-frames the stitching on the side pockets and around the shoulders is also visible. It’s the Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top. One hundred per cent. The top is that distinctive. And even though this footage was shot in the early hours, we know the colours, we know the details.’
‘Okay, thank you for your expertise in that regard, Mr Masterson. And for the record, Your Honour, that has never been disputed by anybody. All concerned are willing to accept that the hooded top in this footage is the distinct Pink Sasoon hooded top.’ He narrows his lips, then turns to the witness again. ‘Now, Mr Masterson, I want to move to another side of your expertise. I am right in saying that Urban Outfitters were the only store to stock the Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘But more specifically, it was the Pennsylvania-based Urban Outfitter stores, only, right? This product didn’t go nation-wide?’
‘That is absolutely correct. It was a trial run of a fashion item by a local designer who Urban Outfitters’ buyers are often willing to give a break to. That kinda thing happens often. Items come and go all the time.’
‘Interesting. Thank you, Mr Masterson. And as managing director, you keep records of all stock coming to and from your warehouses, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘So, can you tell me and indeed the court how many Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded tops you supplied your Pennsylvania-based Urban Outfitter stores with?’
‘Yes. They went on a trial run in three of their stores. And in total, we distributed ninety items.’
‘Just ninety, for the whole State?’
‘According to our records, each store received thirty Pink Hoodies; ten in size small, ten in size medium and ten in size large. It was a typical trial run.’
‘And were any of the hoodies returned to your warehouses unsold?’
‘Yes, almost half of them. Forty-three of the ninety.’
‘Meaning only forty-seven were ever purchased from an Urban Outfitters?’
‘Yes.’
Delia moves to pick up her pen, but she doesn’t scribble any notes. Not yet, anyway. Because the witness hasn’t revealed anything knew – nothing that hadn’t been revealed in the original trial. But s
he knew something was coming…
‘Now… a Mr Mathieu Dupont testified on that very stand two days ago, Mr Masterson, and was questioned about the figure in the CCTV footage being five foot, and three quarters of an inch, or five foot, two inches – but in regard to the hooded top itself, that wouldn’t make a difference, right?’
‘I, eh… I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean, Mr Ryan.’
‘I mean, you don’t make individual hooded tops for specific individual heights, right? There isn’t one for somebody who is five foot, one and a different one for somebody who is five foot, two.’
Masterson puffs out a laugh.
‘Of course not. These particular hooded tops only come in three sizes. Small. Medium. Large.’
‘It’s that straightforward?’
‘That straightforward.’
‘So, in that case, somebody whether five foot or five foot, two would be wearing a small hooded top, correct?’
‘That is most likely, yes,’ Masterson says, biting on his bottom lip and then looking to the judge as if fearful he had said anything out of turn. She glances at him, then looks towards Ryan, her eyes squinting. But she doesn’t say anything.
‘So, do you know how many Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Tops were distributed to Urban Outfitters in size small only?’
‘Yes. As mentioned, each of the three Urban Outfitters received ten small hoodies, so that means thirty.’
‘Thirty. Interesting. And how many out of that thirty were sent back to your warehouse unsold?’
‘Fifteen. The hoodie wasn’t a big hit.’
‘So, if only thirty of these small pink hooded tops were ever distributed, and fifteen were sent back, that means this hoodie here in this footage,’ Ryan points to the screen again, ‘could only possibly be one in fifteen, too, right?’
‘One in fifteen, correct. That is the famous fraction.’
‘You see, Your Honour, our defendant here today was one of those one in fifteen. Because she purchased this small Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top when visiting Pennsylvania with her husband, Shay Stapleton. He was away on a tour with the Dublin GAA squad when Joy flew out to meet him for the last five days of that tour in April 2005. She purchased this hoodie for seventy-nine dollars on April tenth, during that trip.’
Ryan walks to his desk, bends down and picks up the infamous hoodie, all wrapped in a clear plastic cover, as if it had just come back from the dry-cleaners and hadn’t, in actual fact, been hanging in a dusty warehouse filled with shelves of trial evidence for the past eight years. The problem investigators had when it came to the hoodie was that it gave no indication of Joy’s involvement in the death of her two young sons. The top wasn’t of interest to investigators until the CCTV footage had been found some two years after the children had been reported missing. And in that time, the top had been worn and washed by the defendant an incalculable number of times. Meaning that, like the scene of the burial itself – given the two years it took to come across it – the hooded top had been rid of any possible DNA evidence dating back to the time of the crime.
‘Also, for the record, Your Honour, in the original trial this was stated, but I would like to highlight again, investigators put a call out through national channels looking for anyone in Ireland who might have, coincidentally, like Mrs Stapleton, purchased one of these tops back in Pennsylvania in 2005. Nobody came forward. Not then. Not since. Which means, we firmly believe that Joy Stapleton was the only person in this entire country who owned a Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded top at the time Oscar and Reese Stapleton were murdered. However… since then, and for extra investigative measures for this retrial, we also put a call out to people in Pennsylvania to speak with women who may have owned the small version of this hooded top back when it was on sale in 2005…’ Ryan walks towards the judge. ‘Your Honour, I give you twelve statements from witnesses from Pennsylvania, all of whom say they did indeed buy that top back then, and, crucially, confirming they were not in Ireland during the period in which Oscar and Reese were murdered. We have narrowed the field even further. If it was hard to believe the coincidence excuse back when Mrs Stapleton first blurted it out, then it’s almost impossible to believe it now.’
‘Mr Ryan,’ Delia calls out, hammering her gavel repeatedly. ‘You will not assume the belief of this court. I am the judge here.’
She eyeballs him over her glasses. Though she knew what he had just delivered was pretty golden. He had literally chipped away at any notion of coincidence.
‘Sorry, Your Honour, what I’m trying to say is… it was always argued by the defence that it was mere coincidence that a figure wearing that exact hooded top was seen so close to the scene of where Oscar and Reese were buried. And now we know it to be an even bigger coincidence than was claimed in the first place. In the original trial it was stated that it could only have been one of fifteen people in the entire world in that footage, well today we know that it could only have been one in three.’ Ryan turns and faces the witness. ‘Thank you, Mr Masterson. Your time is very much appreciated.’
Delia scribbles onto the paperwork in front of her as Jonathan Ryan takes a seat. Then she glances at Joy before raising an eyebrow at her defence lawyer.
‘Mr Bracken, I assume you have questions for this witness…’
‘I do indeed, Your Honour.’
Bracken gets to his feet, walks himself directly to the witness box and grips the edge of it, squinting up at Masterson.
‘Mr Masterson,’ he says, ‘You are Pennsylvanian, are you not?’
Masterson’s brow dips, causing his glasses to slip down his narrow nose.
‘I am indeed, yes,’ he says, pushing them back with a stab of his boney middle finger. ‘I was raised in Roxborough, but have lived in Philadelphia practically my whole adult life. Since I was twenty-two in fact. So that’s thirty-four years.’
‘I’m an Irishman,’ Bracken says. ‘And like you, I have moved towns. I was born in Cork. I moved to London. Then to Dublin. So, what I’m getting at here is, we move around, don’t we?’
‘Move?’
‘As in, we don’t just stay in the same place, do we?’
‘I, eh… guess not,’ Masterson says, turning to the judge as if to ask if she is as flummoxed by Mr Bracken’s questioning as he is.
‘It’s human nature to move around,’ Bracken says, holding his hands out and shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s not just Irish folk who move around, is it? American people move around too, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
Masterson hunches his shoulders up and down, the wrinkles on his forehead now forming a deep V.
‘In fact, Americans like to move around Ireland specifically… Let me tell you that in the year 2008, nine-hundred and eighty-seven thousand people travelled from America to Ireland. On November 2nd of 2008, when this footage was filmed,’ Bracken says, pointing at the screen still on loop, ‘and according to Fáilte Ireland statistics, eighty-eight thousand Americans were travelling in Ireland.’ He inches closer to Masterson. ‘I assume you haven’t spoken to all of those eighty-eight thousand people, right?
‘Mr Bracken,’ Delia calls out.
‘Sorry, Your Honour. It’s just that this witness seems willing to sit in this witness box during this very important trial to rule out the possibility of coincidence when indeed the coincidence cannot totally be ruled out. This witness hasn’t spoken to everybody who owned a Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Top. We don’t even know that the top in this footage is definitely a small, do we, Mr Masterson?’
Mr Masterson looks at the judge, as if she is going to protect him again. But she just looks over her glasses at him, awaiting his answer.
‘It looks like a small,’ he says.
‘Sir, you do not know for certain whether that top is size small, do you?’
‘No.’
‘And, Sir, you do not know everybody who travelled from the States to Ireland in November, 2008, do you? So, therefore you cannot totally rule out the fact that
one of those many travellers might, just might, have been from Pennsylvania and just might have been wearing one those tops.’
‘Well, as Mr Ryan has proven to the court with that new paperwork… he has ruled out many more people since the original trial. That dilutes the possibility of coincidence to one in three—’
‘Mr Masterson,’ Bracken shouts, his irritation stretched. ‘Is it or isn’t it a fact that you simply do not know for certain that somebody may have travelled from America to Ireland in November who owned one of those Pink Sasoon Ladies Hooded Tops?’
‘Yeah… It’s a fact.’
‘You can’t possibly know for certain, can you?’
‘No.’
Masterson shakes his head and looks down at his own lap, as if he’s just been scolded by his mother.
‘Exactly,’ Bracken says. ‘You can’t possibly know for certain. That’s our questioning complete, Your Honour.’
1,120 days ago…
Joy’s cell door swept open, but she didn’t turn in her bed; assuming it was just one of the prisoners dropping by out of sheer boredom. But then she heard the squealing whistle of hard-soled shoes against her concrete floor, before a familiar, agitated sigh exhaled.
‘What are you still doing lying in bed? It’s gone half eleven.’
She held her eyes closed with annoyance before mustering up enough energy to turn over on her mattress.
‘Chill out, Aidan. Ye sound like me da. Ye think you can order me about?’
Aidan swung his jaw from side-to-side.
‘Well, actually, I can order you about. I am a prison officer in Mountjoy Prison, and you are a prisoner in Mountjoy Prison,’ he hissed through his clenched jaw. ‘Now listen up… you have a visitor. And you need to go see him now.’
‘Is it my lawyer?’ she asked, sitting upright and rubbing at both eyes. ‘Is it?’
‘I think it is, yeah,’ Aidan said, sounding exhausted. He stepped outside and waited for her to throw on a sweat top and slip herself into her trainers before she joined him.
The Coincidence (The Trial Trilogy) Page 17