by Anne Emery
The Crumlin Road Courthouse was one of Ireland’s neoclassical buildings. It had Corinthian columns and a triangular pediment bearing the royal coat of arms. Atop the triangle stood the lofty figure of Justice. But the effect was marred by the coils of razor wire all along the fence in front. On Monty’s first day on the Crumlin Road, a group of picketers marched to and fro outside the building, with signs reading “Stormont Star Chambers!”; “An End to Diplock Courts!”; “Stop Torture Now!” The torture sign had a gruesome photo of a man whose face was swollen, bruised, and cut.
The bombing at issue in the trial had occurred in 1993, before the ceasefire. It was said to have been in retaliation for a bombing at a Republican bar two weeks earlier, in which five people died. But who knows what that attack had been meant to avenge? Monty thought back to the discussions he had had recently about lawyers being identified with the clients they defend; he sure as hell would not want to be identified with this. But for a lawyer practising his craft, there was nothing to equal this kind of case in this kind of court. The three defendants, Whelan, Buckley, and Dolan, were young men in their early twenties, “alleged” to be members of the IRA.
Now, Monty and Redmond entered the courtroom together after being searched and scanned for weapons and explosives. They were seated with their backs to the judge, at a table facing the barristers. With this arrangement, communications could be relayed between barrister and solicitor. Their clients were farther down the length of the courtroom, in the dock. Everyone rose when the judge walked in, bewigged and stern, and the proceedings got underway. The jury box remained conspicuously empty. The rationale was that jurors could be threatened, intimidated, or improperly influenced to acquit or convict, depending on their politico-religious affiliation and that of the defendants. Never mind that judges, too, were under threat. So now the defendants entered the courtroom without the long-held protections that the jury system offered.
Whelan and Buckley were thin, almost emaciated. Whelan had a scar running down his cheek from the left eye and another on his upper lip. He grimaced, revealing a missing front tooth. Buckley had patches of green and yellow on his face from old bruising. The barrister, McKendrick, needed no prodding from Redmond O’Reilly or Montague Collins to milk that for all it was worth. The third client, Dolan, was in better shape, but his expression was one of simmering anger.
The prosecutor opened his case with police witnesses who testified about the horrific scene at the Flute and Drum after it had been blown up by a ten-pound bomb. The officer described in detail the smouldering remains of the front of the building, the rubble of concrete and charred wood, the smell of burnt flesh, the death-stilled bodies of a twenty-three-old woman who was tending bar that night, a young man of twenty, and the mutilated body of the elderly owner of the bar.
The bereaved families of the victims, sitting in the gallery, stared at the three accused men through tears of grief and rage. All three avoided their gaze. The two defendants with battered faces showed none of the defiance of the protesters outside the courthouse, and none of the insouciance that many of Monty’s clients displayed as they sat in the prisoners’ dock. Dolan maintained his angry demeanour throughout the police testimony.
The police witnesses described the arrests of the three accused men, two from the Ballymurphy housing estate and one from the Markets area.
At this point, one would expect to hear evidence of an eyewitness who could place the accused men close to the Flute and Drum around the time of the explosion or who had seen the car belonging to one of them speeding away from the scene. One would expect a police witness who had noted traces of explosives or chemicals on the defendants’ hands or clothing or who could testify about a phoned-in warning traced somehow to the defendants. But Monty knew the file. There was no evidence of this nature at all. The evidence against the three came from the Crown’s star witness, a snitch, a tout, an informer, who had been given immunity for his role in the bombing in return for testifying against the three others who, he claimed, had been in on the bombing with him.
By the time it was over and all three men convicted, Monty had seen things he had never seen before in a court of law. Including the “helpful intervention” of His Lordship on the bench. The judge butted in several times over the course of the trial, only once during Crown counsel’s questioning, but frequently during Pearse McKendrick’s time with the witnesses. The evidence was inevitably shaped and altered as a result, as the Crown witnesses twigged to what they should be saying and how they should be saying it. As for the defence witnesses, His Lordship at times conducted his own cross-examinations, thus assisting Crown counsel where Crown counsel might otherwise have fallen short. And, in the course of all this, the judge made it clear that he did not consider the defence witnesses worthy of belief. It was all Monty could do to remain quiet and not jump to his feet with an objection. It wasn’t his court, it wasn’t his country; he felt as if it wasn’t his world. Here was a judge abandoning his role as a supposedly neutral umpire and interfering with the examination of a witness, derailing the defence’s case in the process.
Then there was the torture. Whelan had made a confession, which he now said he only made because he was tortured into giving it. “I would have said anything. I would have pleaded guilty to killing President Kennedy. Anything to get them to untie my hands and to stop them pounding on me.” Buckley, too, had confessed and said he had done it under duress, after repeated beatings. Both men described the abuse they had suffered; both had bruises and scars that appeared to back up the allegations. What Monty was used to, in more innocent times, was the hallowed principle that a confession is admissible only if it was made voluntarily. Otherwise, the police would be encouraged to beat confessions out of people as a regular practice, which would be wrong in itself — legalized assault — and confessions given under such duress might, just might, be unreliable; a person will finally confess to anything to stop the abuse. Like Whelan here.
But this gold standard, too, had been tarnished in the North of Ireland. The Diplock commission, which had set up the current system, had decided that such a rule would impede the orderly course of justice. Might impede the success of the forces of law and order, yes, but wasn’t the course of justice something else? Wasn’t it? Perhaps not. On the night they first met and drank together, Reddy had informed Monty that it was a feature of Diplock cases that judges routinely allowed “coerced confessions” obtained through “intensive interrogations.” And previous courts had ruled this permissible. Monty felt as if he had stepped through the looking glass into a dark and disordered universe.
When the show was over, all three defendants were found guilty. One of them was indeed guilty of the atrocity. Buckley. And it was not his first offence. He was your basic, stock-footage, fanatical terrorist, and Monty wouldn’t be the least bit sorry to see him thrown into a cell for the rest of his life. The other two, however, were innocent men. This was clear from Buckley’s evidence and other information Monty had gathered about the case. The two men weren’t there, didn’t do it. But down they went, the latest casualties of Belfast justice. They could expect to be sentenced, alongside Buckley, to imprisonment for life. Addressing the press and the regular crop of protesters outside the Crumlin Road Courthouse, Redmond O’Reilly announced that the verdicts would be appealed.
* * *
Back in the office on Friday, Monty was still wired up after his dramatic four days in the courtroom. He felt the need to talk it out with someone, and that someone was Maura. He called her at the University College Dublin law school and managed to catch her before her class. She let him vent his anger over the wrongful convictions, and the system that allowed — that in fact aided and abetted — such results. He wound down eventually and heard about the fun she and the kids were having in Dublin. The kids missed their dad. His wife allowed as how she too missed old Monty. Monty was seized with the longing to be with his family on the other side of the border
, enjoying the craic in Dublin and leaving behind the unsettling legal and political terrain of Belfast. He knew that Maura and the children were planning to stay in Dublin for the weekend, which would kick off tonight with a Saint Patrick’s Day pageant at Normie’s school. But, catching the mood, Maura decided they would take the train up to Belfast on Saturday. Cheered by the prospect of the visit, he said goodbye and told himself to knuckle down and catch up on the work that he, of his own free will, had taken on.
One thing he wanted to look into was the investment company that had been sending payments to Winnie Flanagan. So he went in to see one of the lawyers in the corporate law department, Sandra MacLeod, and asked her if she had ever heard of Day Sure Investments. No, she hadn’t. He gave her a bit of the background, and she said she would do a search. He thanked her and went back to his office, did a bit more work, and then headed out for a Saint Patrick’s Day lunch and piss-up at McHughs. There wasn’t much of a contingent from Ellison Whiteside for the saint’s day event, but Monty met up with some congenial souls at the bar and enjoyed the outing.
Muriel Whiteside had a surprise for him after he had returned to the office and brushed his teeth in the men’s room. Muriel came into his office and placed a plain white envelope on his desk. “Occasionally,” she said, “we need to look into things that have been done sub rosa. We have a man who helps out on those occasions. He has many useful contacts around the city.”
Monty picked up the white envelope, which he could not help thinking of as a plain brown envelope. He slit it open and withdrew a page of hand-printed notes prepared, presumably, by the investigator. On November 18, 1992, a 1988 Ford Orion had undergone repairs on the front and rear bumpers. There were two small holes in the rear. There was nothing to identify the repair shop or the owner of the car, but the notes did provide a crucial bit of information: the name of an insurance company. Yet, although the car was fully insured, the owner had paid for the repairs himself. The man who did the auto repair work was “quite certain the car owner was UDA. Shots fired at him, doesn’t know by who.”
The last thing Monty wanted to do was fuel any more of Hughie Malone’s conspiracy theories. But wasn’t evidence turning up that showed that the old fellow was not as wacky as he had initially appeared to be?
Monty looked up and expressed his thanks to Muriel.
“You’re welcome. One thing before I go, Monty. An expenditure like this, we pay out of, well, a bit of a slush fund. Nothing dodgy, just cash we keep on hand.”
“Sure. I’ll reimburse you. How much?”
“It took quite a bit of time for him to locate the right car.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“And there’s a bit of risk involved for him.”
“Right.”
“Two hundred fifty quid.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have it for you by the end of the day.”
“No rush.”
“Oh, and tell him there will be a bonus for him if I get the name of the auto repair shop.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
On Saturday morning, Monty drove to the train station to pick up Maura and the kids for the weekend. He was anticipating the family visit, but part of his mind was still focused on the image of a 1988 Ford Orion with two bullet holes in its back end.
Chapter XIX
Brennan
On Saturday, March 18, Brennan volunteered to say the five o’clock Mass at Holy Cross for the regular priest, who was said to be ailing. There were a few cracks about the “Saint’s Day Effect” but, irrespective of the reason, Brennan was happy to oblige.
“Ah, Brennan,” Ronan welcomed him when he got back to Andersonstown. “Good. An old mate just rang. He’s back in town after being, well, out of town. We’re heading out for a bit of craic. You’ll come with us.”
“I’m always up for the craic. Where are we off to?”
“Sure we’ll find a shebeen and seek admittance thereto.”
“Very sporting of you, Ronan, you being on the dry.”
“Thanks for reminding me, Father. I’d almost got myself convinced we were going out on a rip.”
“One of us is. I could use a good, soothing pint of consolation. I’m remembering a sad situation. One of Monty Collins’s clients — well, a family of six — had to leave the lovely, safe neighbourhood where they grew up to move to a tower block in a very dodgy-looking council estate. Evicted from their house because they couldn’t make the payments.”
“Ah, what a shame. I hope their fortunes change for the better, God help them.”
“Not much chance of that, Ronan. They’ll be in my prayers. I don’t know what else can be done for them, by me at least. But we’ll head out and have a jar or two.”
Standing there in the hallway, Brennan reflected on the fact that Ronan had barely mentioned the debacle at Saint Matthew’s church after Tom’s panicked announcement. Ronan’s silence could not be taken as acceptance, Brennan knew. He decided to bring it out into the open.
“Ronan, about that sortie into Saint Matthew’s parish house . . . I was the ringleader there, not Tomás.”
“Tom’s a grown man, Brennan. He’s responsible for his own decisions.”
Ronan’s words were dispassionate, but his expression was that of a father who would never give up agonizing over his son until death did them part. He said, “Tom would have gone in there with or without your assistance, Brennan. I know it, and you knew it at the time. You had the best of intentions; you put yourself at risk to try and save him from himself. And truth be told, I’d have done the same thing if I were in his shoes. I’d have taken the risk of getting the Browning back because the alternative would be to spend the rest of my days waiting for the hammer to fall. Now I guess that’s the situation we’re faced with, hoping against hope that the peelers won’t be able to tie Tom to the secretary’s description of the intruder who put the frighteners on her at Saint Matthew’s. But it’s not going to do us any good to dwell on it now.” His words, and the expression on his face, made it clear that the subject was closed.
Ronan went to his front window then and peered outside. “My pal will be here any minute. Gráinne’s gone off with some of her friends, so she’ll not be here pining for my company.” He turned and said, “Will you be joining us, Lorcan?”
His son had just walked into the room with a newspaper in his hand, and he sat down to read. “Can’t tonight, Da. Where are you off to?”
“To one of the places where I can still get served.”
“Are there some places that won’t have you, Ronan?” Brennan asked.
“Aside from the Loyalist bars where they’d blow the head off me the instant I walked in the door?”
“Yeah, aside from those.”
“Well, it’s an established fact in this town that I’m off the drink.”
“So the cash registers don’t ring to the extent they used to when you’d take your place at the bar.”
“That’s right. The local economy has taken a hit. But there are still a few kindly publicans who’ll admit me and serve me sparkly water. And Paddy Murphy at the Banned Flag is one of those.”
“The Flag, is it?” Lorcan asked, from the corner of the room. He had his head buried in the Irish News.
“It is. Join us if you change your mind.”
“It’s Aoife’s sister’s birthday. Tom’s arranged a bit of a hooley at McCribbon’s. There’s a session, and Aoife wrote a comical song for the sister, and me and one of my mates are going to sing it for her. Which reminds me I’d better ring him and prompt him about the time. He’s not the most punctual man, I have to say.”
He got up and went to the phone, punched in the number, and waited. “Oi! You remembered we’re on at half nine at McCribbon’s?” He listened to the response, then said, “Good. Yeah, sure. Or you could come over here, Mam and Da’s place, have a coup
le of cans beforehand. I’ve the place to myself. My oul fella’s here with cousin Brennan, and they’re heading out to the Banned Flag. Unless they suck up everything here before they go, there will be a few drops left for me and you. What’s that? Oh, all right. No worries. See you at the hooley.” He hung up and returned to his newspaper.
Brennan heard the beep of a horn outside. “That’ll be Fegan,” Ronan said. “I’ll have a word with my men out there.”
They left the house, and Ronan waved to the driver of a new-looking grey Jeep — it may have been another model of vehicle but to Brennan anything that looked like a Jeep was a Jeep — idling in the street. Ronan raised the index finger of his left hand, signalling to the man to wait one minute. He walked over to his bodyguards, one of whom was standing outside the security vehicle with his eyes on the Jeep. There was an animated discussion between Ronan and his protector, and Ronan turned and headed towards the Jeep, with the bodyguard at his side.
“Wants to have a look,” Ronan said to the newcomer through the driver’s window.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
The guard took a good long look around the seats before going to the rear and examining the vehicle from there. He returned to the front, took Ronan aside, and spoke to him again. It wasn’t hard to get the gist of it: the vehicle looks clean but it’s our job to protect you, and you’re safer with us. But Ronan was having none of it.
“I’ll drop him right at the door,” Fegan said, “and then get this parked and go back and join him.”