by Tim Buckley
And amid my teasing, there was always one song that silenced me, one Dylan tune whose nasal solemnity was above derision. “What good am I?” it asked. What good am I if I just ignore all the injustice and misery around me, all the pain and the hardship that, if I could be bothered, I could stop or just make better. It was like your anthem, the soundtrack to your world and your every day. And though you couldn’t be any better, you never stopped asking yourself that question because the bar you set for yourself was too high, almost out of sight. And even though, in coming close, you did more than most of us would ever even attempt, it was never enough.
You were there this morning, while I stared at Pearse Turner’s number on my phone, my thumb poised over the call button. I couldn’t do it, but you were there and you put a hand on my shoulder and you said “Go on, love. It’s the right thing. You know it’s the right thing, because the right thing is always hard.” And I nodded, and put my hand on yours and squeezed.
I know you’re proud of me now. I know you are. And it wasn’t a big thing, it was no real sacrifice or virtuous gesture, but I suppose it would have been easier not to. And without you to say it was the right thing to do, I don’t know that I could have done it. But Pearse and I both know that you would have done the same and then castigated yourself for not doing more.
I see people give in to a new norm, and it tells them to live their lives by reference only to the personal gain their actions bring. They pay lip service to the right thing, but the mobile phone generation has perhaps become focused only on what’s best for them, what enriches their own lives and to hell with everybody else. You used to see it in our circle’s social plans and it made you angry. Arrangements were always tentative, right to the last minute. Our friends would never commit to being in the pub or at the restaurant or at the cinema, just in case a better offer came along. And if it did, sure they could always give you a call on the insidiously omnipresent mobile to postpone or cancel or rearrange. Because they treated their time as a scarce resource to be carefully allocated so that it generated the greatest return. And if, at the last minute, a better offer came along, then they grasped it and made the all too easy excuses, and afterwards fretted that they had missed out on something even better. In seeking to find always the best opportunity, they succeeded only in creating a never-attainable nirvana and being always disappointed at falling short.
I’m going to find that Dylan song. And I’m going to play it every night before I go to bed. And I’m going to ask myself, what good am I? I don’t have your lofty aspirations, nor your zealous belief in justice and a fair world. But if I can feel your hand on my shoulder and know that I’ve done any small thing to make you proud, then some good will have come of the day.
CHAPTER 31
Oran had suggested that we meet Pearse in a coffee shop near his building. The prospect of actually going to a law firm’s offices was, perhaps, too daunting, too ready an admission that this was serious and not a boyish scrape that would lead to a smacked arse from an irate father and bed with no tea. Too grown up.
The café was in a small, smart new complex by the river, all urban industrial beams and vaulted ceilings and interior design shops filled with the pointlessly desirable accoutrements of people for whom the menial on its own is simply tedious. It was eleven o’clock and the centre was all but empty save for a few misplaced tourists and housewives filling anxious time before appointments or careless time before rendezvous or guilty, thrilling time before dangerous liaisons.
Oran had taken less encouragement than I had feared to meet with Pearse. The gravity of his predicament was emerging ever more starkly with every day closer to his day in court, and Lochlann had rudely awakened him to the need to take this seriously. So he had agreed – on the proviso that we meet on neutral ground and that he wasn’t going to take “any pompous shit from any up-his-own-arse solicitor.” With those ground rules clearly established and understood, I had arranged a time and a venue with Pearse and the date was set. Oran had been quiet on the DART into Connolly Station, intently focused on a tabloid newspaper whose pages he didn’t turn. I didn’t try to break into wherever he was lest I cross a hidden line and risk him storming off the train at Sutton or Raheny or Killester.
Pearse was sitting at a table in the café when we arrived, his phone caught between his shoulder and his ear as he bashed frantically at the keys of a laptop. I didn’t look at Oran, but I could feel his eyes raised to the roof. I nodded to Pearse, and went up to the counter, holding back the surge in my gut at the sight of Pearse, fighting it with quiet insistence that this was not the time and the distraction of the immediate.
The nervous-looking young girl at the till went off to make our coffees, fumbling with a snarling, steaming machine that she didn’t really know how to operate and that seemed in no mood to co-operate .
“You ready?” I asked Oran,
He nodded. “That’s him, I’m guessing?” he said, nodding sidewards at the still-engrossed Pearse.
“Yeah. Look, he’s a good man, alright? Don’t get arsey.”
He shot me an impatient look, and was about to retort when Pearse came over, his call obviously finished.
“Sorry about that, Aengus,” he said without further explanation, reaching out to shake my hand.
“No problem, Pearse,” I replied. “This is Oran. Oran, Pearse.”
“Good to meet you, Oran,” Pearse said, holding his stare and drawing a professional first impression.
The girl came back eventually with three coffees and an apologetic smile, and we took a seat in the corner, away from the only other customer in the café.
Pearse got straight to the point, addressing Oran directly and ignoring me.
“I’ve done a bit of digging around, Oran, I hope you don’t mind,” he said, stirring some sugar into his coffee. “I talked to an old friend of mine in the Garda station in Howth. You must have bought a few tickets at the Garda raffle last Christmas – you have some friends up there. They didn’t want this to go as far as it has, but they have no choice and you haven’t given them a chance to kill it. Bobby McGrath is an old golfing pal of my father’s, and I had a chat with him yesterday as well. He doesn’t want to see you in trouble either – you’re a good regular – but he has an interest in a few restaurants around town and he can’t afford to make enemies out of the likes of Joyce.”
He paused to drink some coffee, and I could feel Oran’s fidgeting under the table, waiting impatiently for him to get to whatever point he was trying to make.
“Now, I also know Judge Tobin, who’s hearing your case. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about what he sees as a rise in loutish behaviour in Dublin and he’s determined to stamp it out where he can. Public disorder is his red rag, and he treats it with zero tolerance.”
Oran raised his hand to stop Pearse’s flow.
“Look, Pearse, I appreciate the work you’ve obviously done, I really do,” he said, calmly. “But if this is a lost cause, there’s no point me wasting any more of your time, is there?”
Pearse shook his head.
“It’s not a waste of time, Oran,” he said, firmly. “With your record, you’d usually expect to get away with a fine and a sharp rap on the knuckles. But Tobin has been going to town recently, and he’s been handing out a lot worse. And Joyce is making a real song and dance out of the whole thing.” He drew breath and his furrowed brow betrayed his concern. “You might even be looking at a short stretch here, and I think I can help you. I can’t promise to keep you out, but we can keep it to a minimum.”
I had expected to play the arbiter, to calm an over-wrought Oran, but Pearse was in control and didn’t need my help.
Oran clenched and unclenched his hands, caught in two minds and taken aback by Pearse’s undisguised admonishment, and nodded slowly.
Pearse continued, unfazed by the interruption.
“Joyce, from what I h
ear, is determined to see this through. An affront to his professional integrity, an attack on the freedom of the press, the usual self-important crap from a hack with an inflated view of his own kudos. It’s a restaurant column, not Watergate, someone should remind him. But he has a right to go about his business without being attacked in the pub – apparently!”
He shook his head as though perplexed by the world’s obsession with political correctness and smiled at his own joke. Oran had to laugh in spite of himself, perhaps warming just a little to a man who might just be an ally.
“With all of that, I’ve seen Tobin hand out three or four months.”
Oran’s smile disappeared and he looked as though winded by a sucker punch to the stomach. He had always known that he was in trouble, that this was serious. But to have it spelled out in such stark terms by one qualified to express an opinion – that made it very real and very, very frightening.
“Now look, just as Tobin is on a one-man warpath against anti-social behaviour, so a positive social contribution goes a long way with him. And as I said to Aengus the other day, he’s not a big fan of Dublin’s nouveau chic. He has some sympathy for anyone who shows some enterprise and a willingness to graft, and who doesn’t assume that the world owes them a living. Character references from Aengus’ father – whose celebrity in the arts world will do no harm at all – and from a long-time school-master be very important. Do you think your old boss at the Bella Cucina would speak for you?”
Oran was visibly impressed at the thoroughness of his investigation – he knew more than he had ever expected.
“He might, I suppose. We parted on fairly good terms and he always treated me well.”
“Good. We just want him to say that you started at the bottom, worked hard and got to the top. And that you took that experience and left with his blessing to spread your wings and go it alone.”
Oran raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks.
“Well, you might have to write it down for him, but yeah, he might say that.”
“Leave it with me,” Pearse said, scribbling a note in his monogrammed leather-bound notebook. “OK, I’ll get started preparing our case and we’ll talk again in a few days. Time, as ever, is not really on our side.”
Oran nodded, looked nervous.
“Listen, Pearse,” he said, uncertainly, “I need to know what all this is going to cost?”
Pearse put the notebook back in the inside pocket of his jacket, and looked at Oran.
“Let’s just call it a favour for an old friend, Oran, and leave it at that.”
Just then, Pearse’s mobile phone rang, and he pulled it from his jacket pocket.
“Sorry, Oran, I thought I turned it off,” he said, with a grimace. “Do you mind if I take this?”
Oran nodded, and Pearse walked out to a quiet spot in the concourse.
“Jesus, he doesn’t pull his punches, does he?” Oran said when he was gone.
I shook my head.
“What would be the point? Might as well call it like he sees it.”
He nodded and rubbed his eyes with both hands.
“I know. Four months in jail though? Shit. I should have hit the little prick harder!”
I laughed and snatched a brief moment of relief at the frankness that was Oran’s trademark and that he would have to control if he was to make any sort of good impression on a judge.
“I’m not sure Tobin would see that as mitigation – ‘but I could have hit him harder, your honour.’”
He grinned a rueful grin and rubbed his eyes again. He was worried now, as though he had underestimated the trouble he was in, or closed his eyes to it in the hope that it might just go away.
“He knows his stuff, though, doesn’t he? I mean he seems to know what has to be done, what buttons to push and all that?” he said, searching for some reassurance.
I nodded. But although I really wanted to, I just couldn’t find the optimism to be convincing.
He shook his head.
Pearse reappeared with a contrite smile.
“Sorry about that,” he said, “but I’ve learned not to cut off a call from the boss.”
“No problem,” Oran said. “Listen, I have to get back, there’s a load of work to do and I’ve learned that it doesn’t ever get done if I’m not barking at someone!”
He stood up.
“Listen, thanks, man,” he said, looking straight into Pearse’s eyes.
Pearse nodded, and Oran was gone.
“Would you drink another coffee,” Pearse said to me, “I’m gasping for one.”
I smiled and nodded, and he went to the counter.
The centre was getting a little busier as lunch-time approached, and flustered men in the new uniform of suits and bare, open collars hurriedly picked up coffees and sandwiches to bring back to their desks, mobile phones attached to their ears. Despite the swelling crowd, the stores seemed empty and I wondered if anyone ever actually bought anything, or if the shiny silver and stainless steel follies were just expensive ornaments in a huge display case that decorated the centre.
Pearse arrived back with two coffees and sat into the seat.
“Thanks, Pearse,” I said, peeling the plastic lid from the cup. “So what do you think?”
Pearse drew a long breath and blew out his cheeks.
“It’s not great, Aengus, to be honest,” he said, “but let’s see what we can do.”
“You make it sound a bit hopeless?”
“Not hopeless, no – but we could do with some help from Jude!” he said, with a quiet laugh.
My face told that I didn’t understand the reference.
He paused.
“Sorry, Aengus,” he said, softly, slowly, uncertainly. “In the office, when a hopeless case came in, we used to… we used to shout over to Caitríona, ‘Hey, Jude’. We all knew that, as long as there was justice at stake, she would never turn down a lost cause.”
He looked at me, and we said nothing for a moment. And then another. And then another. He looked down and stared into his coffee as though it had just revealed some great secret.
Then, involuntarily and spontaneously, my face broke into a broad smile. I think I might even have laughed.
“Hey Jude, eh?” I grinned and cocked an eye. “And they say lawyers have no sense of humour?”
“I know!” he said, arms outstretched in mock disbelief, and genuine relief. “You should hear us when we get a few pints inside us. Friday night down at our local is like the Comedy Store!”
His face grew serious again.
“She was one of a kind, Aengus, I’ve never known anyone like her. I’m not a sentimental person, and this has nothing to do with morbid reminiscence – she just commanded that we remember her that way.”
He raised both hands.
“Right, that’s me done. I’ve been reciting it for hours and I’m glad I got to say it. Sorry, Aengus – thanks for indulging me.”
I shook my head, and drew a deep breath.
“Don’t apologise, Pearse,” I said, quietly. “I’m just learning how to be proud of her again, and it’s good to hear people talking about her and the way she was, not mourning her.”
“Do you remember the Rollins case?” he said, and took a drink from his paper cup.
I looked up into the centre’s vaulted roof and tried to catch a vague memory that was flitting around my head. Caitríona talked a lot about her work, but never gave me enough detail to commit some indiscretion or faux pas, and yet the name sounded familiar.
“It rings a bell, but...”
“Johnny Rollins was a fifteen-year-old kid from west London. Just a normal kid – from a good family, went to a decent school. But for some reason, he had been ridiculed by a bunch of other kids because he had the wrong trainers, you know what kids can be like. But the ridicu
le got nasty, and became a sort of abuse. Whatever got into his head, he attacked another boy and stole his trainers. But he attacked him with a knife, and he stabbed him. The kid was pretty badly hurt.”
He paused while one of the staff cleared empty cups from our table.
“Thanks very much,” he smiled at her, and she smiled back. He turned back to me. “Caitríona heard about the case, and asked – well, demanded, really – that we took it on. We used to do a certain amount of pro bono work and so she got her way. She was so desperate to help that kid. She was always committed, always threw herself fully into any case she was working on – but this was different. It was as though it was personal, almost. She was like the proverbial dog with a bone. She had every junior in the firm digging out precedents, called in every favour she was owed, and some she wasn’t. The case cost us a fortune – only she could have got away with it, and nobody dared question her.”
Some coffee dribbled from his cup and down his chin as he drank and he wiped it away with a napkin.
“I came into the office late one evening to pick up some files, and her light was on. She was working on her closing remarks, and I swear she was nearly in tears. The kid had really gotten to her. He wasn’t a bad kid, just did something stupid out of desperation. And now the rest of his life was at stake. The whirling dervish that used to sweep through the office barking instructions and organising the troops, she was gone, and there was a quiet, almost desperate woman in her place. ‘Why do we spend so much time and effort punishing the act,’ she said, ‘when we should spend our time dismantling the motivation?’ She said that, if he had been insane, they would have found him not guilty. But because he was driven by an ugly obsession that we created, a set of celebrity culture norms that we allowed to become a kind of social law, he would be condemned. ‘I wish he really was insane,’ she said. We worked on it for hours. She knew he was going to be found guilty, of course he was. But she wanted to make sure that his life wasn’t torn asunder by it all, that he still had a chance. And she did. The Judge was more lenient than anyone expected, than any of us could have hoped. Caitríona didn’t get him off – it’s not a fairy story – but she gave him back a chance in life. She really did.”