The Coincidence (The Trial Trilogy)

by David B Lyons

  Aidan bit the bottom of his lip, then, in seeing Joy’s excitement, beamed a grin at her, before reaching a hand to her shoulder.

  ‘I’m so happy for you,’ he said. Then the grin dropped from his face.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked, her smile dropping too.

  ‘It’s your father,’ Aidan said, his fingers squeezing at her shoulder, ‘I’m sorry, Joy, but he didn’t wake up this morning.’

  774 days ago…

  She closed her eyes softly, allowing the gentle breeze to tickle her curls. Then she inhaled a fresh breath of air. It had been a year since she’d felt a breeze. The large sixteen-foot fences and walls around the prison made it nigh on impossible for winds to penetrate.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was the green that stole her gaze; the grass, the stems of the flowers, the leaves of the trees that stood tall only fifty-feet away. She’d never found a tree more interesting to look at; had never even thought to stare at one for so long. But here she was, enraptured in its bulging trunk and the thick branches that bent and arched away from it. The leaves seemed luminous, and the flowers, in rows all around her, were so multi-coloured that it seemed as if the brightness of the outside world had been heightened since she’d last been out here.

  Aidan stared at the profile of her face as she soaked in the tree, then he jangled the cuffs a little, and ever-so-slightly rubbed his knuckles against hers.

  She blinked herself back to the present, glancing at Aidan quickly, before glaring down at the hole in front of them.

  ‘We lay to rest Noel Benjamin Lansbury. Noel, may you rest in peace in the arms of our Lord.’

  Six strange men, all dressed in black suits and shaking with cold, balanced the coffin on to two leather straps, before slowly lowering it to the bottom of the grave.

  Joy looked around herself at the pitiful attendance. Two of her father’s old workmates – one of whose name she had forgotten – and good old Pat Traynor; the one friendly neighbour everybody adored from the tiny cul-de-sac Joy had grown up in. There were a gaggle of women, none of whom Joy recognised, and two nurses from the home Noel had spent the past six years residing in; noticeable because they wore a ribbon around their necks that was emblazoned with the care home’s logo – just to ensure their attendance was noted, Joy assumed. And then there was Ray De Brun. For some reason. The detective who spent all that time with her, telling her he was going to bring her boys back before he finally showed his true colours and arrested her for their murder. She knew he had spoken to her father multiple times during the investigation, and that he had once paid a visit to his care home to pass on his regards, but she was surprised he was here for the funeral. He had thinned his lips when he saw Joy enter the small church cuffed to Aidan. In fact, he made the same face everybody in attendance made at her when she met their stare. They all seemed to lose their lips and offer a very subtle nodding of their heads.

  She got distracted by the breeze picking up, rustling through her tight curls, so she closed her eyes again as the priest mumbled a prayer, and inhaled fresh air through her nostrils. Then she noticed everybody blessing themselves and before she caught up with the act, not easy when you’re handcuffed, most of the crowd had begun to disperse.

  ‘You, eh… you wanna go, or hang on a bit?’ Aidan said.

  Joy looked back over her shoulder, towards the marked police car in the car park that had two police officers inside, waiting to escort her back to Mountjoy.

  ‘How long will they give me?’

  Aidan shrugged a shoulder.

  ‘Let’s stay until they call you, huh?’

  She smiled at him, then subtly allowed her knuckles to brush off his again. He looked so handsome in his long navy double-breasted overcoat.

  ‘Wanna join me on my hunkers?’ Joy said, raising her cuffed arm. And then Aidan slowly lowered to his hunkers, before Joy joined him, staring down on to the top of the coffin.

  ‘That was weird seeing all those old faces,’ Joy said.

  ‘Nobody really said anything to you, did they?’ Aidan replied, squinting through the breeze towards the gate at the far end of the cemetery where the small gathering were filing through the oversized gates.

  ‘Nope,’ Joy said, ‘But I know what they all would have said to try to console me: that he died in his sleep, so he went out in a good way. But he didn’t. Did he? You actually couldn’t go out any worse than my dad did. First, he lost his wife just half-way through her life, then his two grandkids go missing. Then his daughter is all caught up in the storm and wrongfully sent down for two life sentences. I mean… no wonder he was in a mental home by the time he was in his mid-fifties…’ She sobbed a little, but then steadied herself. Her dad was only sixty-one when he passed; he got a decade more than her mother. But those ten years were as miserable as life can possibly get. The Lansbury’s were once one of those enviable families – always by each other’s side. Noel and Monica had been a proper partnership. Never shaken. They had tried for almost seven years after getting married in 1979 to have children, but it turned into a struggle. It wasn’t until they had been for multiple tests that doctors got to the bottom of the problem. It was Sheila; her eggs were limited. Very limited. She had one chance at IVF, and even at that there were no guarantees. But it worked out. Nine months later Joy arrived, kicking and screaming. The trio were inseparable until Joy was swept off her feet by a Dublin hero when she was just eighteen. And then, sometime not long after that, their whole lives turned into a nightmare from the first day Monica was diagnosed with breast cancer. She passed away not knowing Joy was pregnant with a grandson she would have just doted on. Joy didn’t know she was pregnant either. Not until the following week, when she was still in the throes of her grief.

  ‘It’s such a shame you never got to tell him you had been offered a retrial.’

  ‘Pffft… that’s typical me though, isn’t it? I had literally come looking to tell you in the prison, then I wanted to go call him to let him know. He would’ve been so happy for me.’

  Aidan glanced at Joy’s profile.

  ‘At least you’ve got all that to look forward to though, huh?’

  ‘What have I to look forward to, though? Even if I do get out… where would I go? Who am I getting out to? I’ve nobody. Not a husband no more. Not a son no more. Not a parent… Not even a friend.’

  She sniffed up her nose, determined not to cry, then she gently took another of those fresh inhales through her nostrils, just to steady herself.

  ‘Listen,’ Aidan said, pinching Joy’s fingers between two of his. ‘I just want to say, cos I didn’t really get a chance to yesterday, but… I’m super happy for you. Thrilled. You gotta keep this to yourself because us officers, we’re not supposed to say anything like this, but…’ he looked back over his shoulder, towards the car park, ‘I’ve always thought you to be innocent. Always. From before I even met you.’

  Joy stared into Aidan’s blue eyes.

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘I was glued to the coverage of your trial just as I was finishing my training as a prisoner officer. It’s funny. I often wondered that if you were convicted whether or not I’d ever get to meet you in Mountjoy. And there you were on my very first day, the very first prisoner I ever got to escort to a cell. Funny how life works out sometimes, innit? But I was hoping I’d never meet you, because I never believed you should have been sent to prison. I thought your trial was bullshit. I knew the dog was bullshit, knew the CCTV couldn’t be proven. I truly hope they overturn your conviction at this retrial. I mean, I’ll miss ya ’n’ all… but…’

  He shrugged a shoulder at her and smiled.

  ‘Why’d d’ya have to be fuckin gay?’ she asked, beaming a smile back at him.

  ‘Why? Do you still fancy me?’ He laughed out loud. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever forgotten you tried to kiss me.’

  Joy held her free hand to her face, to smother her embarrassment with it.

  ‘Has anyone else b
een trying to kiss you lately?’

  ‘Ahh, that’d be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Go on… tell me.’

  ‘No. It’s nothing. Nothing. It’s the gay scene, isn’t it? Loadsa chances of one-night stands, very little chance of actually finding somebody you want to see again after those one-night stands… typical.’

  ‘Ye filthy sodomists,’ she said, giggling. And then Aidan shouldered her. He didn’t mean to push her that hard, but she stumbled and fell, and then he fell on top of her as the cuffs dragged him down. He immediately got up. Offered his free hand to help Joy to her feet, before he brushed down his knees in a fit of giggles.

  Then he stared over at the two officers sat in the front of the police car and was relieved to see them sat still, unmoving.

  ‘I’m serious, Joy,’ Aidan said, gripping her hand again. ‘I looked into your case as much as I could. And I know you. I’ve gotten to know you well over the past six years, despite our ups and downs. You’re no murderer, Joy Stapleton. I know you’re not.’

  ❖

  Delia’s stare hasn’t left Christy in quite some time – not even to glance at Jonathan Ryan as he is posing his questions. She has been fascinated by this witness, intrigued by the testimony she has just provided. Though the witness certainly has come across as troubled, what with her swearing on the stand and Bracken delving deep into her long history of theft. Yet Delia has been left feeling there was a sense of sincerity in how the witness spoke about Joy. Delia was wondering, as she studied Christy’s heavy, bloodshot eyes, whether the witness possibly believed wholeheartedly that Joy confessed to her, even though Joy never did. Perhaps the drugs had played their part in convincing Christy she heard what she wanted to hear. The alternative theories were probably just as likely. Maybe Christy is aware she is lying, and at some stage decided to just turn on Joy. Or maybe, just maybe, Christy was actually telling the truth. Maybe Joy did confess to her.

  Delia scribbled a question mark in her notes, then turned to Jonathan Ryan as he approached the witness box again.

  ‘You have been clean of drugs for some considerable time, Christy. And you have begun to turn your life around… correct? I mean you haven’t been in prison since 2017. And here is Mr Bracken trying to tear down all of your progress by bringing up your past. Christy, if I can ask you to say again what it is you came here to say… is it true that inside Mountjoy Prison in 2017, Joy Stapleton confessed to you that she had murdered her two sons?’

  ‘Yep, it sure is. She confessed to me. She did.’

  ‘Thank you, Christy Jabefemi, for your time. You are now free to leave.’

  Delia stares over the rim of her glasses at the witness as she climbs down from the box before hobbling her way down the aisle. Then the judge pulls back the sleeves of her robe to check her watch just as Christy is pulling back the double doors, and notes that it’s just gone two p.m. So, she sucks through her teeth, and stares down at Jonathan Ryan.

  ‘Are we calling it a day, Your Honour, or would you like me to introduce my next witness?’ he asks.

  ‘Let’s, eh…’ Delia hesitates, ‘let’s take a quick recess. Fifteen minutes. Court will resume at two twenty precisely.’

  She bangs down her gavel once, then gets to her feet and rushes out the side door. She offers a thin smile to the young woman dressed in black and – all of a sudden – she just collapses, her back sliding down the wall until her ass reaches the cold tiles.

  ‘I just need to sit… sit anywhere but in there,’ she says to the woman dressed in black, before producing a long sigh. ‘You couldn’t just give me ten minutes, could you? I, eh… I know my office is only twenty paces away, but I just feel as if I need to breathe before I walk again.’

  ‘Sure thing, Judge McCormick,’ the woman dressed in black says. Then she turns on her heels, leaving Delia to sit alone in the overly-lit hallway, her head in her hands.

  She tries to steady her breathing as she soaks Christy Jabefemi’s testimony into her mind; trying to gauge it within the context of everything else she has heard over the course of this retrial. She couldn’t make it all the way to her office because she was jaded; and she is jaded because her filtering system has been working overtime – her mind splintering in so many different directions.

  Then the side door sweeps open beside her, and her son appears.

  ‘Oh hey,’ he says, blinking at the sight of his mum’s legs stretched across the tiles. ‘Was just coming to see you.’

  ‘Course you were,’ she says, puffing a laugh into her hands.

  ‘That was some testimony, huh? This is over – she’s guilty. This retrial paints her even more guilty than the original.’

  Delia removes her hands from her face.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mum… don’t tell me you don’t agree? I mean, you’re not still thinking about that bloody cadaver dog, or Mathieu Dupont’s testimony, are you? Mum…’ Callum takes a step closer and stands over his mother. ‘This is open and shut. Just deliver the guilty verdict and get me out of this mess.’

  ‘Making it all about yourself again.’

  ‘Mum, this will destroy me.’

  ‘Calm down, Callum,’ she says, whispering and then pointing at the courtroom door he had just exited. ‘You think that witness was reliable… really? Ponder this for a second, yes? Joy Stapleton murders her two children, then keeps it secret from the entire world for the past twelve years. She doesn’t tell a soul. Not one of her loved ones, not her best friend, not her husband. Not a police officer. Nor a doctor. Nor a psychiatrist. Yet despite keeping it a secret for so many years from so many loved ones and so many professionals, she just happened to let it slip to a prison junkie? Of all people. Really? You think that’s plausible?’

  Callum circles his foot on the checkered tiles.

  ‘You allowed the witness.’

  ‘I allowed her because I thought it’d be beneficial to hear the testimony of the person Joy spent most of her time with just after she was incarcerated. I was intrigued to understand how different Christine Jabefemi’s opinion of Joy Stapleton would be compared to anybody else. Even as much as Shay Stapleton’s. Or Lavinia Kirwan’s. I wanted an insight into the convicted Joy. The Joy who was behind bars… to see if she was any different post-conviction to how she was pre-conviction.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Callum says, ‘and that’s what you got. Joy admitted to a prisoner that she did it. You got what you wanted…’

  ‘Just because I allowed the witness, doesn’t mean I have to buy everything she testified. Christine Jabefemi is hardly a model witness.’

  ‘She is a witness who knew the defendant—’

  ‘Shhhh,’ Delia whispers. ‘Keep your voice low. Besides… I’m the bloody judge here, okay? Only I know why I allowed Christine Jabefemi to testify. Only I can glean from her testimony whether or not she is being sincere.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t give a shit,’ Callum says, keeping his voice low, but his tone curt, ‘about Christine bloody Jabefemi’s sincerity. I just want to know you are going to do the right thing; that you are going to get me out of this mess.’

  ‘I thought you were getting yourself out of the mess,’ Delia says, folding her arms.

  ‘The private eye hasn’t got back to me. I’ve left about half a dozen missed calls on his phone between last night and this morning. He said he was looking into things… But I’m not sure he’s going to be quick enough. He might not get much information for me before this trial ends. You’ve only one bloody witness left now anyway, haven’t you? Final arguments will be tomorrow. You might even have a verdict back by tomorrow afternoon.’

  Delia rolls her eyes to stare up at her son, and then snorts out a laugh.

  ‘That won’t be happening. I’ll be taking my time. Let’s see what Detective Ray De Brun has to say anyway.’

  ‘Well, hopefully De Brun will be able to convince you of Joy’s guilt again. Because I think you have somehow been slanted on this… you seem like you’re det
ermined to acquit her…’

  ‘Slanted? Me?’ Delia holds a hand to her chest. ‘Determined to acquit? Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Well you keep constantly arguing with me about it. I keep telling you she’s guilty, you keep pushing back.’

  ‘I’m not pushing back on guilty. I’m just not jumping the gun like you are. Besides, I’ve taken all of my emotion out of this. You clearly haven’t. I haven’t told you I am leaning either way yet. Because I’m not leaning either way. It’s too early for a judge to pass judgement. And you need to learn that, son. You should have learned that already. I’m assessing every witness testimony and every slice of evidence being offered up just as I’m supposed to. So, stop assuming you can read my mind. If you could, you’d be able to tell that I haven’t made my mind up at all, yet. Far from it, in fact.’

  They both pivot their heads and stare up the hallway as a sweeping of feet brushes its way towards them.

  ‘Sorry, Judge McCormick,’ the young woman dressed in black says as she walks into view. ‘I was asked to get back to my post because it’s 2:18. Court is set to resume in two minutes.’

  ‘Oh crikey, that fifteen minutes flew,’ Delia says, readjusting so she’s on all fours before she steadies herself to her feet. She then puffs out her cheeks and slaps her son between his shoulder blades. ‘Time to get back to it, Callum,’ she says. ‘Take your seat. I’ll be in in one minute.’

  Callum pulls at the side door and disappears, but not without huffing and puffing.

  ‘You can let them know I’m coming,’ Delia whispers to the young woman dressed in black, then she, too, pulls open the side door Callum has just disappeared through, and nods inside.

  ‘All rise!’

  Delia winks at the woman as she passes her, then she climbs her way to her highchair.

  There is a lot of chatter in the courtroom, but that’s only because most of the gallery didn’t bother leaving their pews for the short fifteen-minute break, preferring instead to debate Christine Jabefemi’s testimony with the folk sat next to them.