He strolls back to his desk, picks up his glass of water and takes a short, sharp sip from it.
‘Your Honour, the accused’s best friend since Primary School testified on the stand that Mrs Stapleton was suffering with some form of undiagnosed depression around the time Oscar and Reese Stapleton were murdered. After her mother had died, and with very little support from her overworked husband, Joy Stapleton slipped into an undiagnosed depression that drove her to do the unthinkable. The testimony from Lavinia Kirwan proves motive, Your Honour. Which means that, to this court, during this retrial, we have proven motive. And we have proven evidence.’
He points his hand at the screen again where the footage is still playing on loop.
‘We also had distinguished Detective Ray De Brun testify during this retrial. Ray De Brun has been the lead detective on many of Dublin’s most infamous cases. He testified here, in this courtroom, this week, that he is under no doubt whatsoever that Joy Stapleton murdered her two boys. He was asked quite bluntly if he had any doubt that Mrs Stapleton is guilty of this crime. And his exact response under oath was, “none what-so-ever.” This is one of Ireland’s most decorated investigators in the entire history of our state, Your Honour. So, now we have expertise. We have motive. We have evidence.’
He doesn’t point his finger at the screen this time, but he does notice that Judge Delia glances to the footage as he melodically repeats his tag-line.
‘Your Honour, the detectives in this case got it right by arresting Joy Stapleton. The jury in the original trial got it right by finding her guilty. And the judge in the original trial – Albert Riordan – got this case right by handing down a double life sentence. That double life sentence needs to be protected. It needs to be upheld. It has been made plain and clear during this retrial that the defendant is prone to outbursts. She made numerous outbursts directed at me today whilst on that stand; outbursts certainly not befitting a woman of innocence, outbursts that can only reaffirm to us that she ended the lives of her two young sons in the most inhumane act this country has ever—’
‘You lying mother—’
Joy is dragged back down to her seat by Bracken, who has to add weight to both of her shoulders to steady her.
‘See, Your Honour,’ Ryan says. ‘A hot temper. Another outburst. And that is numerous times today. It is far from inconceivable that on November 2nd, 2008, Mrs Stapleton had the mother of all outbursts. And that outburst led to her murdering her two boys, before burying them in shallow graves in the wasteland of the Dublin mountains. And we know she did this because we have expertise. We have motive. And we have evidence,’ he says, pointing at the screen, this time with both hands. ‘Your Honour, the prosecution rests its case.’
There’s a humming of chatter in the gallery as Delia steps down and exits the courtroom.
Aisling chooses to stay quiet as the judge brushes past to enter her office; conscious the judge will be deep in thought.
Delia huffs as she sits into her chair, before wiggling at her mouse again. And as her screen takes its time to blink back to life, she stares at the sharp shadows the cupfuls of pens and the cracked photo frame of her family are casting due to the dim orange light above her head. She is thinking about the taglines used in both closing arguments, feeling both to be rather outdated. Though she does realise Ryan and Bracken were playing to the media as much as they were playing to her. They knew the newspapers would lap up the taglines for lazy headlines tomorrow, though she isn’t quite sure whether ‘If there’s any doubt, you must let her out,’ would be preferred by editors over, ‘We have motive. We have expertise. We have evidence.’ All she knows right this second is that she, personally, wasn’t won over by either of the closing arguments. Though she won’t be making any decision right now. That’ll happen later. When she’s sunken into a hot bath, with bubbles hugging her face and a glass of wine swirling in her hand.
A familiar knock rattles, causing her to tut.
‘Come in, Callum.’
He shows his grinning face, then shuts the door quietly behind him.
‘Did you see how puce he was sitting in the back of the courtroom? He’s in some shock. He kept stuttering to me after you stormed off. The fat gobshite. I mean, I’ll never get the image of his hairy balls out of my mind, but… drama finally over.’ He sits into the chair opposite his mother and holds up both hands. ‘You can, eh…. do as you were always hoping to do; see this retrial through a fresh set of eyes.’ Delia thins her lips while continuing to squint at her screen, saying nothing. ‘Mum… Mum. Whatcha thinking about?’
‘Things.’
‘What things? The closing arguments? I thought, personally, Bracken’s was stronger, but Ryan’s was more specific. I mean—’
‘No, Callum. I’m not thinking about the closing arguments. I’m not even thinking about the trial. I’m thinking well beyond the trial. I’m trying to figure out a bigger picture.’
‘A bigger picture? A bigger picture of what?’
‘Things.’
‘Things?’ Callum sits upright. ‘Mum… what the hell are you talking about? Things?’
‘Just a bigger picture is all… anyway, my head’s been stuck in this trial for way too long… I’m going to wait till I run a hot bath tonight, then I’m going to get my head into it. Tell me something. Anything to distract me. How’s that fella you dated last weekend? You guys arrange a second date?’
Callum sniggers, then snatches at a pen from the cupful on his mother’s desk and repeatedly clicks at the top of it.
‘I’m actually seeing him tonight.’
‘And have you told me what this guy does for a living, yet?’
‘He’s a cook of some sort. Runs a catering business with his brother.’
‘Ah, nice. Someone who can cook, huh? So, he’s gonna be the one then, is he?’
Callum sniggers again, then tosses the pen onto the desk.
‘Why you wanna talk about me? I wanna know what you mean by ‘bigger picture’, you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you, Mum? What does bigger picture even mean?’
Delia swipes the glasses from her nose and rests them down beside her mouse before leaning back and twisting the butt of both palms into her eyes.
‘Don’t know…’ she says, through a stifled yawn. ‘I’m thinking beyond this trial – way beyond it. About the justice system as a whole.’
Callum creases his brow.
‘So, you are thinking of doing something stupid. Are you gonna let her out, just to let the system come crashing down? You’re not… you’re not thinking of letting her out… are you? Mum, she’s guilty. C’mon… you know that.’
‘Well firstly, I don’t know that, do I? Nobody does. Ryan says he proved red-handed evidence. He didn’t. It’s a figure in a pink hoodie. We see no face. So, we don’t know for certain. Nobody does. But… secondly, does it even matter if we did know for certain?’
‘Huh?’ Callum says, sitting more upright.
‘Eddie Taunton… I mean the absolute cheek of that man.’
‘You’re not… Mum… are you fucking serious?’ He mouths the word ‘fucking’, the sound of the ‘f’ flicking off his bottom lip. ‘You’re gonna acquit Joy Stapleton just to throw a grenade on the system?’
‘I don’t know. I told you, I need a warm bath. I’ll do my filtering process in there tonight and I’ll… I’ll—’
‘Mum. Tell me you’re not being serious?’
‘I told you. I’m gonna think it all through tonight.’
‘Mum, she murdered her two young sons. They were babies. She was videoed walking away from the scene for crying out loud.’
‘We don’t know for—’
‘It’s not a bloody coincidence, Mum. There is no coincidence in this case. You said that yourself. You said it years ago in your interview with Eddie Taunton. There is no coincidence in this case whatsoever. Never has been. This has been known as ‘The Coincidence Case’ for over ten years now, ever since Joy w
as first arrested. Coincidence this, coincidence that. As Jonathan Ryan said in his opening argument, there’s no such thing as coincidences, not really. Hell…’ Callum puffs out a snort, ‘the only time I heard any coincidence in this entire trial was when they mentioned the date of the murders. Second of November, 2008. Same date as my graduation, wasn’t it? Same night this was taken.’
He picks up the cracked photo frame from beside his mother’s monitor and turns it to himself. He’s still grinning back at his father when it releases from his grip, his thumb slicing on a shard, the frame swirling in slow motion until it crashes to the floor. Again.
‘What the fuck?’ he says, standing up and holding a hand to his chest. He bows forward to stare down at the photo; but not to see his father’s proud face, nor his, nor his mother’s. But to squint at the tiny figure in the background. A figure that had never caught his eye before. Joy Stapleton. Just over his father’s shoulder. Her curls packed tightly into a pink hood.
Delia’s brow is heavily creased as she chicanes herself around her desk. She stares up at Callum’s paling face… then down at the photo. She lowers to her hunkers and inches her nose closer. It takes a long moment for her to finally see it; to notice the tiny figure in the background – a figure she hadn’t noticed, not once, in any one of the ten thousand times she had glanced at this photograph over the years.
‘What the fuck?’ she says, opting for the exact same words her son had chosen.
Delia lifts her knitted jumper from the waist, taking her undervest with it and struggling, once again, to lift them over her head because she’d forgotten she had combed her glasses back into her hair. But she manages to untangle herself before tossing the garments to her bed. Then she unclasps her bra and pulls down her trousers – taking her cotton bloomers with them – before kicking her way to her birthday suit.
She normally basks in the quiet of the house; loves it when Callum goes out for the evening. But this quiet sounds too quiet. Eerily quiet. It’s not calming her spinning head at all.
Callum didn’t want to go out on his date and had actually texted him to call it off. But Delia forced him into a U-turn, demanding that she had the house to herself this evening; that she wasn’t to be disturbed.
They had both sat for an hour in her office just staring at the photo, their jaws ajar, their eyes wide. Then, when Delia snapped out of her shock by shaking her head, she snatched at the photo frame and shoved it into her briefcase, loose glass and all.
‘Mum… what you doing?’
‘I’m going home to have a bath.’
‘But… Mum… Mum,’ Callum roared as she was pacing out of her office.
‘Enjoy your date, Callum,’ she shouted without looking back.
She stares at her body in the mirror, shrugging a shoulder at herself before tip-toeing the length of the carpeted landing that leads her straight into the bathroom. She dips her toe into the bath before sucking in through the gaps in her teeth. Too hot. So she runs the cold tap and begins to swirl her hand through the foaming water. The bathroom is consumed by steam, the glass of Massolino Parussi Barola standing tall on the edge of the bath fogged and dripping with condensation. She turns off the tap, then dips her toe in again for another temperature check. Perfect. She’d been looking forward to this all day. Even before she was stunned into the surrealist of silences by the most extraordinary of coincidences.
As soon as she rests her head on the back rim of the bath she squints through the swirling steam at the cracked photograph. She had sat it upright on the edge of her chest of drawers facing the bath so that she could soak it all in while the cogs of her mind-filtering process churned. She still can’t believe it. Undoubted proof that Joy was walking back down the Dublin mountains on the night she dumped her son’s bodies up there; caught in the background of a family portrait of the McCormicks as they stood, proudly, outside the Windmill pub celebrating Callum’s graduation. One quick flash of a camera. And there it was. Proof; a single split moment caught in time forever.
‘Justice?’ Delia whispers to herself as she sinks further under the water. ‘Or the justice system?’ She picks up her tall glass of wine and swirls it before taking a tiny sip and resting it back down. ‘Which is more important?’
She takes a deep inhale of breath before pushing her bum further forward, allowing her shoulders, then her neck, and finally her face to sink under the water. She opens her eyes when she’s fully immersed and stares up through a gap in the bubbles at the steam as it swirls in a haze towards the high ceiling. Then one bubble releases from her mouth and buoys for a long moment on the surface… before it eventually pops.
0 days ago…
Joy glanced over at Mathilda and Anya who were both standing against the side wall of the courtroom all courteous and disciplined with their hands clasped behind their backs, their shoulders high and their chests puffed out. And as she stared at them, she was certain that Mathilda was smiling at her – her lips twitching, the sides of her eyes ever so slightly creasing. Joy squinted back for a moment, then lightly shook her curls from side-to-side, assuming she was just imagining things.
She pivoted on her chair to face forward when Judge Delia lightly coughed into the microphone, signalling she was about to begin. And as Joy sat more upright in her chair, Gerd Bracken reached a hand across to pinch two of her fingers between his.
‘I have concluded my judgement of this retrial,’ Delia said, leaning her forearms on to the desk in front of her. ‘In all my years I have never so strenuously had to consider so many matters in one court case. Not only is this a retrial that meant I also had to consider testimonies from the original murder trial, but this is a unique murder retrial in that it is without a jury.’ She lightly cleared her throat again and then swallowed, looking sincerely sorrowful. ‘I meticulously examined all evidence and witness testimony brought to this court. And after considered due process, structured within the legal parameters in which I am honoured and proud to work in, time has now come for me to ask the defendant to please rise.’
Bracken squeezed Joy’s hand. Then the entire defence team got to their feet in unison.
‘Mrs Joy Stapleton,’ the judge said, ‘this court finds you not guilty of the crimes of which you have been charged and subsequently incarcerated for.’
There are audible gasps in the gallery. Joy releases from Bracken’s grip so she can throw both of her arms around his neck, then she leans in and kisses him just beneath the ear. ‘You are a free woman. You are free to leave this court a free woman. On behalf of the Justice System,’ Delia continued, even though it was evident Joy was no longer listening to her – lost in a haze of elation, ‘I would like to extend the first apology for your wrongful conviction.’ She slams down her gavel. ‘Court dismissed.’
A booming chorus of chaos sounded out as the judge stepped down from her highchair. Joy was sandwiched in a double hug; Gerd Bracken on one side of her, his assistant Imogen on the other. Then, over Imogen’s shoulder, Joy noticed Anya and Mathilda making their way towards her, Mathilda definitely smiling now, Anya’s stunning face still sombre and pouted.
‘Joy, we need to conduct due process before we free you, as per the court’s orders,’ Mathilda said, holding her fingers to Joy’s elbow. ‘If you could step into the hallway with us.’
Joy nodded her curls while beaming a huge smile through her tears and then, flanked by Bracken, she followed Anya and Mathilda through a side door that led to a monochrome tiled corridor.
As soon as the heavy door was closed behind them, the chaotic mumbling of debate and discussion humming from within the courtroom instantly drowned to a near silence.
‘I told ya all them years I was innocent, Mathilda,’ Joy said, bouncing up and down on the spot, much like she used to when she’d get high on meth.
Mathilda nodded and pursed a thin smile at her.
‘Listen,’ she said, leaning in to Joy, ‘I know you have just had the best news ever, but eh… we just got word after
we arrived here this morning, and I’m sorry to have to tell you this… but it’s, eh… it’s Nancy.’
Joy stopped bouncing.
‘Nancy?’
‘She, eh… she took her own life last night.’
‘What?’
Anya nodded once, like a robot.
‘I know you’ve got a lot going on, but I know you guys were close and I thought I should tell you,’ Mathilda said. ‘Because well… she did it because of you, y’see?’
‘Because of me?’
‘She left a note. A suicide note. It said, “I love you. I can’t go on without you.” She didn’t want to do her time inside with you not being there, Joy. She musta feared you were gonna be acquitted today.’
Joy pouted her lips and shrugged one shoulder.
‘That’s sad,’ she said, before she began bouncing on the spot again. ‘Now, what’s this due process we need to go through, cos I just wanna get the hell outta here?’
Mathilda stared up at Anya, but Anya, as usual, produced nothing – not even the flicker an eyelash.
‘There is no procedure,’ Mathilda said, turning back to Joy. ‘I just wanted to let you know about Nancy… that’s all.’ Then she pointed her whole hand to the back end of the corridor. ‘Let your lawyers take you out that entrance down there… there’ll be less media that way.’
Joy spent her first hour of freedom bouncing her knees up and down under a desk inside Bracken’s office, celebrating with men and woman dressed in suits – most of whom she’d never even met before. She was buoyed, but already bored by her new-found freedom. Only because she felt she had to keep a fake smile plastered wide across her face for the sake of those in suits she knew she had to consider her heroes.
The Coincidence (The Trial Trilogy) Page 27