‘No,’ I say. And I say it as clearly and frankly as I possibly can. ‘We were happy. I was happy. We were one big happy family. I don’t know what else to say about being accused of having post-partem depression, because it’s just not true. I know Lavinia Kirwan sat up here earlier in the week and said that I was suffering with depression before my boys went missing, but that is a very obvious lie. Shay admits he didn’t think I was depressed around that time. My dad admits he didn’t think I was depressed. Because I wasn’t depressed. I wasn’t suffering with depression at all. I was happy. We were happy. Then it all…. Then it all…’ A loud sob leaps itself up from the back of my throat. And suddenly the tears pour from eyes. And my nose. I pinch at the tissues and cover my face with them, my shoulders shaking. That fuckin’ bitch Lavinia. She’s such a jealous fucker. Always has been. She hated that I was prettier than her. Hated that I snagged myself a Dublin footballer while she was left on the shelf.
After steadying my breathing behind the mask of tissues, I remove them from my face, then mouth a sobbing ‘sorry’ at Bracken.
‘You have nothing to apologise for, Joy,’ he says. ‘It’s the entire state who owe you an apology. Now,’ he says, moving even closer, so close his fingers are clinging on to the edge of the witness box, ‘do you know how many days you have spent in prison for this crime that you did not commit?’
I spray from my mouth as I let out a puff.
‘Days… no?’
‘Two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,’ he says. I make on ‘O’ shape with my mouth. ‘That’s right. Tomorrow will be your three-thousandth day inside Mountjoy Prison. Three thousand days, Your Honour. Three thousand days for a crime she did not commit. Three thousand days incarcerated for a crime that unearthed zero eye-witnesses. Three thousand days incarcerated for a case that offers up zero forensic evidence. Your Honour, this is the biggest miscarriage of justice in the history of our nation, and you are the only one who can put it right. I am done with my questioning, Your Honour.’
He reaches out his hand to me and squeezes my fingers, and as he does, I wipe another tissue across my face with my other hand. Then Jonathan appears, standing in front of me – all set and ready to convince this judge that I am a fucking child killer. I hate him. I hate Jonathan Ryan. He’s an arrogant cunt.
‘You are the only person in the country who owns one of those hoodies, Joy – right? You know it is not a coincidence that that hoodie was filmed a thousand yards away from where your boys’ bodies were found on the night we believed they were first buried there.’
Wow. Straight into the coincidence. Fucker wants to squash my argument from the get-go. But I’m not for moving.
‘It wasn’t me. So, it has to be a coincidence.’
‘I find that hard to believe, Joy.’
‘What I find hard to believe, Mr Ryan, is that my boys are gone. Forever. And I’ve been holed up in Mountjoy Prison ever since, accused of murdering them. That’s what I find hard to believe.’
He hangs his bottom lip out, then inches closer to me. And in the time he does so, I look over at Bracken, to see if he was impressed with how I answered that question. But his face is void of expression.
‘Joy, your mother passed away… when?’
‘Second of February, 2003.’
‘2003… so just before you gave birth to Reese, right? Your first son came along eight months later?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then Oscar was some two and half years after Reese?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay… I just wanted to get my timeframes right. So, your mother passed just before you became a mother yourself?’
I sigh out loud.
‘Yes.’
‘Get to your point, Mr Ryan,’ the judge calls out. And I stare at her, surprised she’s sticking up for me. Maybe I’m not as far behind in this race as I thought I was. Maybe the judge likes me. Maybe she believes me.
‘Sorry, Your Honour,’ Ryan says. ‘Joy, you have testified on the stand here today that you did not suffer with any depression when your boys were born, but in truth you must have been feeling grief stricken, right?’
‘I grieved the death of my mam, yes. But I’m not one to… to…’
‘Not one to, what?’
‘To mope. Life is what it is. I was sad my mother only got half a life. But I was also looking forward. I knew I had lives yet to live. One was literally inside me when I was at my mother’s funeral.’
‘So, you did grieve your mother’s passing, or you didn’t?’
‘No, I did. Of course I did.’
‘Of course you did,’ he says, unbuttoning his blazer and looking smug. Then he strolls back to his desk and picks up a sheet of paper. I’ve no idea what he has in store for me.
‘Do you know what the second most prominent trigger for post-partem depression is, Joy?’
I sigh out of my nostrils, then shake my head.
‘Out loud, Joy, please,’ the judge orders.
I lean closer to the microphone and whisper, ‘no’.
‘Grief.’ He stares at me, while scratching under his chin. I don’t know whether he’s expecting me to answer that. But he didn’t ask a question. So, I just eyeball him back while pinching at the balled tissue in my hands.
‘You gave birth to two sons within the immediate years following the tragic loss of your mother and you don’t feel you suffered from any post-partem depression?’
‘I didn’t. I loved being a mum.’
‘You were spotted one thousand yards from where you buried your sons after killing them, Joy.’
‘I did not!’ I stand and scream. But my screaming is drowned out by Judge Delia hammering onto her desk.
‘Mr Ryan, you know well it is your job to ask questions and not make judgements in my court room.’
He stands there still trying to look smug, but she just made him look like her bitch.
I toss the hard ball of tissue onto the shelf, then sit more upright and try to steady my breathing. Bracken told me that Ryan would do this, that he would constantly try to wind me up. I swore I wouldn’t react. But I couldn’t help it that time. Besides, the judge seems more pissed off with Ryan than me.
‘Let me rephrase that, then,’ Ryan says, ‘I put it to you, Joy, that in a bout of depression, after you lost your mother and then gave birth to two boys, you lost control of yourself, killed your sons and buried them in the Dublin mountains.’
I grind my teeth. And as I do the judge looks at me, as if it’s my turn to talk, even though he didn’t ask any question… did he?
‘Mrs Stapleton, the lawyer has put a claim to you… how do you respond?’ the judge says.
I unclench my teeth.
‘You can put that claim to me all you want, Mr Ryan. I didn’t kill my boys.’
‘So, after all these years you are still saying it is a coincidence that your unique pink hooded top – the only one in the country – was filmed near the scene of the crime?’
‘It is a coincidence.’
‘Well, it’s a coincidence that didn’t convince your best friend, isn’t it? A coincidence that didn’t convince the detectives in charge of your boys’ murder investigation. And a coincidence that didn’t convince this very court of law over eight years ago.’ My teeth immediately snap tight again. I’m literally keeping my mouth shut until he asks a question. Bracken made me swear I wouldn’t offer up any information that Ryan doesn’t specifically ask for. ‘Mrs Stapleton, isn’t it quite apparent to you that this defence you have – of coincidence – is difficult to be believed by anyone… not even your best friend?’
‘Former best friend. I haven’t spoken to her in a decade.’
‘Yes. Because she believes you killed both of your boys in cold blood.’
The whole room goes silent… waiting on my response. But I just sit there, staring back at him, not saying a word, my teeth snapped shut.
‘Now, Joy,’ he says, taking a stroll back to his desk to pi
ck up a sheet of paper. What the fuck has he got for me now? ‘I’m going to read out a text exchange between you and your husband Shay from February 14th, 2008. This is just over half a year before you reported Oscar and Reese as missing persons.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
‘“Hey,” it starts, “you didn’t think to check your schedule?” And then Shay replies, “Jesus it’s only one night a year, we can rearrange.” And then you reply, “I’m thinking of rearranging my whole life, never mind one fucking dinner.” Rearrange your whole life… what does that mean, Joy?’
‘Oh, please,’ I say, gripping on to the shelf. ‘We were having an argument about Valentine’s night. I thought Shay was going to arrange something romantic for us. But I had just found out, because he had rung me just before I sent that text message, that he wouldn’t be home that night; that he was in some other county… staying at some hotel.’
‘You were having an argument?’
I sigh, and then throw both of my hands in the air before they slap down on to my lap.
‘Seriously, Your Honour,’ I say, looking to the judge. ‘Is he seriously trying to convince you I murdered my two boys because I was expecting dinner with my husband on Valentine’s night?’
The judge doesn’t answer, she just turns back to Ryan.
‘Well, that’s not all, Joy,’ Ryan says, ‘I have another text message here dated earlier than that, December, third, 2006.’ This is Shay texting you, “Where are you?” You took almost three hours to reply to him. And when you did, you wrote, “I am taking a little time for myself. Jesus.” He replied straight away saying, “Well, of course that’s no problem. But perhaps we can talk about it rather than you just racing off without telling me. The boys were just left here. I don’t know what to even make them for lunch.” Joy, you never replied to that text.’
‘So,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders.
‘Well, it just makes me wonder… fond of abandoning your sons, were you, Joy?’
‘You little,’ I grip the shelf, digging my nails into it, the blood shooting up my neck and into my face, ‘you little—’
‘Calm down, Joy,’ Bracken shouts towards me.
I try to steady my breathing, then I turn to the glass of water Bracken said I should turn to every time Ryan tries to rile me.
‘Your Honour, if she could answer the question.’
I look to the judge. She just nods at me and I audibly sigh. What am I playing at? I need to calm the fuck down.
‘I went into town to treat myself for the day,’ I say as calmly as I possibly can. ‘It was one day out of I don’t know how many that I had to myself. What do you want me to say? You found, out of hundreds of text messages, two that might suggest me and Shay were arguing. Well whoop-de-doo, Mr Ryan – ain’t you a genius. Yes, on one or two occasions me and Shay had an argument. Do you know a married couple who don’t argue?’
‘Joy, I asked you a simple question, and the court would appreciate an answer to it. Were you fond of abandoning your sons?’
‘Of course I wasn’t,’ I shout. At the top of my voice. Then in the silence that follows, I manage to become conscious of reducing my tone. ‘As I said, that was one time I went and had an afternoon to myself. I never abandoned Oscar and Reese. Ever.’
‘Well, that’s not true, is it, Joy. It says right here in this text from Shay that you left the boys without any lunch.’
‘They were with their father, for crying out loud. I left them at home with their father! Do you have children, Mr Ryan?’
He glances at the judge briefly, then nods back at me.
‘I have a son, yes.’
‘Your wife ever leave your son with you?’
‘With all due respect, Joy, I am not the one on trial here today for killing his son, now am I?’ I grip the shelf again to try to contain my shaking hands. The arrogant smug bastard. ‘So, let me move on, Joy. Tell me this, why did you confess to the killings of Oscar and Reese to Christine Jabefemi.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘Well, now, Christine, despite her personal struggles, is a woman of strong faith. She stands to gain nothing from this trial. So, why would she admit that you confessed to her?’
‘Because she’s crazy. That woman does more meth than I knew even existed in Ireland. She is a thief. She steals and robs and lies her way into getting her fix.’
‘But you did confess to the murders to her, right?’
‘No, I did not!’
‘Joy, I have met with Christine Jabefemi multiple times over the past months. We have tested her for drug use. She has not used in all the time I’ve known her. In fact, I’ve just known her to be a fighter who is determined to stay clean. She has proven to be a courageous and honest and hardworking woman to me. Now, you on the other hand claim you had a happy marriage, and now here we have proof that things were not so rosy in the Stapleton household at all, sure they weren’t?’
‘You’re a liar,’ I snap, ‘you are lying right now saying that Christy is hardworking and honest. She’s a thief, for crying out loud. She’s been a thief her whole life.’
‘Calm down, calm down,’ the judge says, hammering again. ‘The court will ask this witness to refrain from raising her voice and reacting in the manner she just has.’
‘But… but,’ I stutter to the judge, ‘but he’s… he’s…’
‘Just answer the questions put to you, Mrs Stapleton. This is the reason you have been allowed on the stand… so you can answer the questions put to you.’
I swallow, then find that I’m rubbing circular patterns into my thighs with my hands. As if that’s the only way I can remain composed.
‘Our life together was happy. Just like Shay said when he was sitting up here earlier in the week. There were two of us in that marriage, and both of us are saying we are happy. Yet you somehow think you know better, Mr Ryan, do you? You know more about my marriage than me or my husband do?’
‘Well, I wasn’t asking about your marriage,’ he says, offering me a smug grin, ‘I was asking about your family. And while it was good to hear from your husband during this trial, and whilst it’s good to hear from you, we can’t hear from Oscar or Reese, can we? Because they’re dead. And they’re dead because you killed them.’
‘I… I…. Your Honour, Your Honour,’ I say, spreading my arms out with panic etched all over my face.
‘Mr Ryan,’ the judge says, ‘please ask a question, or be done with your witness.’
Please be done with me. Please be done with me!
‘I have a few more questions, Your Honour,’ he says.
Shit.
He walks back to his desk, picks up a small remote control and then pinches his fingers at it. And when he does, an image flashes up on the screen in the middle of the courtroom. A picture of my boys. The same picture I have sellotaped to the wall of my cell.
‘They were very handsome boys, very handsome boys, don’t you think?’ he asks me.
I just hold my eyes shut, then I rework the scrunchie in my hair, because my palms are actually beginning to burn with how hard I’m rubbing them against my thighs.
‘Yes. Very handsome. They looked like their daddy.’
‘What would you imagine they’d be doing today, if they were still alive?’
‘Huh?’ I say, before eyeballing the judge. But when she doesn’t look at me, I glance across to Bracken. He just nods his head. So, I lean closer to the microphone.
‘Well,’ I sob, ‘Reese would be twelve now. And Oscar would be almost ten. They’d be… I don’t know… typical boys.’
‘Think they’d have been training to get into the Dublin football team like their daddy?’
I take another tissue, then fold it over in anticipation of another loud sob.
‘Probably. I mean… Yes. Who knows?’
‘They would have been happy children though, right? With the world at their feet. A whole life ahead of them?’
A sob does come. But it’s a quiet one.
And I just find myself ripping at the tissue while nodding my head.
‘Yes.’
‘Well then why did you take their lives away, Joy?’
The smarmy cunt.
I’m on my feet. My arm fully outstretched, my finger pointing. The tissue raining to the ground in pieces.
‘How fuckin’ dare you!’ I snarl through gritted teeth.
And then Bracken is suddenly on his feet too, rushing towards me while the judge is hammering down a racket.
And the flashes I get when my head is spinning start illuminating in front of me. Those fucking flashes. They haunt me; have haunted me all these years. But it’s not the flash of their lifeless bodies that haunts me. And it’s not the flashes of holding a chloroform-filled rag over their mouths to shut them the fuck up that haunts me either. Nor is it the flashes of dragging their bodies into a shallow grave. It’s the flash of a camera that truly haunts me. A stupid fucking camera. I still see the flash of it every time I close my eyes.
❖
When the gallery finally settles, Delia consciously begins to inhale and exhale deeper… just to dampen her own emotions.
She stares at a Joy, whose sobbing shoulders are being dragged into a one-armed squeeze by Bracken, before announcing that the court will take a recess for ten minutes, ahead of each side’s closing arguments.
Her heart feels heavy as she solemnly takes the three steps down from her highchair and pulls at the knob of the side door.
‘Oh my,’ she says, bending over to rest her hands on her knees as soon as the door has closed tight behind her.
‘You okay, Your Honour?’ the young woman dressed in all black asks.
Delia pants for breath, then shakes her head, still folded over.
‘Tough going,’ she says. ‘I, eh… I’m just gonna sit here for a few minutes. Can you please make sure nobody disturbs me; that nobody comes out that door?’
‘Sure thing,’ the young woman says. Then she moves to stand in front of the door like a guard and clasps her fingers together.
Delia sits on the floor, her back upright against the wall, her legs stretched across the chequered tiles. She squints her eyes, the cogs of her filtering process beginning to churn. That may well be the heaviest testimony she has ever heard in all the years she’s sat atop one of those highchairs. She looked so pained, did Joy, while she was up there. But why wouldn’t she? Whether she’s guilty or not, she’s still bound to be pained. Of course she’d be hugely emotional. Of course she’d be prone to outbursts.
The Coincidence (The Trial Trilogy) Page 25