‘Thank you, Mr Richards, no further questions.’
A moment passes while William scribbles on a page then slides it across the bench to Greg the solicitor who is sitting in front of him. He pulls his cloak around him and coughs behind his closed fist. ‘Pardon me,’ he mutters before he faces Mr Richards. I watch as Greg the solicitor reads the note and discreetly transcribes the contents of William’s scrawl into his phone. Moments later when I hear movement behind me I look around to see Kelly leaving. I glance at Alex and Louise who look just as in the dark as me.
‘Mr Richards,’ William nods civilly and clears his throat. What could he possibly ask? How do you dispute fact? What could he possibly have to contend? ‘As an advanced paramedic,’ he’s playing to his vanity, acknowledging his supposed seniority over the other paramedics and EMTs he works with to get him onside. ‘How many attempted suicides, including this one, do you estimate you have attended to?’ His question is clever, not exactly leading but deliberately suggestive. He almost pauses, waiting for Lucinda to object, but she’s missed it. Attempted suicides, including this one. The subliminal reference to Jenny’s death being a suicide and not murder being part of his master plan. The entire defence is based on casting doubt on everything he expects Lucinda will argue.
‘Eh,’ it’s the first question that Patrick Richards hasn’t had a clear concise answer for. ‘I don’t have an exact figure,’ he says.
‘In the county of Dublin last year alone, there were three hundred and sixty attempted suicides recorded, would it be fair to say that you would have attended to maybe fifteen to twenty of those?’
‘Well,’ Mr Richards raises his eyebrows as he tries a quick calculation in his head. ‘That’s probably not too far off,’ he says, double-checking the estimate. ‘By those figures, it’d be nearly one a month, maybe even two sometimes,’ his eyes glance over the figures that are jumping around in his head. ‘Those numbers would be about right.’ He nods, his account accepted without question.
‘And was there anything different or unusual about this attempted suicide to make you think that it wasn’t as it appeared?
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he says.
‘So it had the hallmarks of other attempted suicides that you would have attended to as an advanced paramedic?’
‘Well, yes, in that the patient presented with the same medical symptoms as other patients that had tried to kill themselves.’
‘Thank you,’ William looks to the jury to make sure the doubt that he has just whipped up lands softly on their thoughts. ‘Can you remind us before we continue, at what point did you put your latex gloves on, as is protocol when treating a patient?’ William adds.
‘As I was walking into the house, between the ambulance and the house, I always do that to save time, I always keep a spare pair in my pocket too.’
‘Okay, and did you at any time take those gloves off, or perhaps change to another pair of gloves while you were at the scene?’
‘No.’
‘And if I could, can I ask you about the syringe you said you noticed?’
‘Yes, of course, on the bed down by the right side of the patient.’
‘So you picked it up from there?’
‘Yes,’ he rethinks. ‘Well, actually no, it was Mr Buckley who picked it up and handed it to me.’
‘So it was in Mr Buckley’s hands before it was in yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he took it from the right side of the bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was the defendant wearing latex gloves at that point?’
‘No, not that I recall.’
‘So it’s fair to conclude that your fingerprints wouldn’t have been on the syringe but the defendant’s and the patient’s would have been?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘And can you recall the size of the syringe?’
‘It was a standard 10ml syringe.’
‘And you mentioned that the liquid in it was pink?’
‘Yes.’
‘So there was some liquid left in the syringe?
‘Yes.’
‘How much, approximately?’
‘About a third, maybe a quarter of the entire volume.’
‘A quarter of the volume,’ William repeats. ‘In your experience then, would the fact that there was still some of the substance left in the syringe indicate that the person who had set about taking their own life, might have changed their mind or, indeed, might have passed out before they had a chance to administer the remainder of the dose.’
‘Well yes, in some cases of attempted overdose the patient doesn’t always have the opportunity to administer the whole dose,’ he answers.
‘So conversely then, if someone’s sole purpose was to take a life, to kill a person by lethal injection, presumably then they wouldn’t leave 25 to 30 per cent of the substance behind?’
‘I sup—’ Mr Richards begins but Lucinda rises rapidly to her feet to speak over him.
‘It is not the place of our witness to assume anything, Judge, never mind what is in the mind of someone wishing to take a life.’ She says.
‘I withdraw the assumption,’ William says but it doesn’t matter, the damage that he needed to apply to her premise is already done. A killer wouldn’t leave any substance behind, ergo, it must have been Jenny who ended her own life.
‘And one last question, Mr Richards, can I ask are you right-handed or left-handed? Which is your good hand?’ he pauses, the colloquial reference his attempt at appealing to the jury to show how ordinary he can be.
‘Left,’ he answers quickly. ‘My good hand is my left,’ he says.
‘So if you were giving a patient an injection would you give it with your right or left?’
‘Left, of course.’
‘Indeed, your good hand… have you ever given an injection to anyone with your right, your bad hand?
‘No.’
‘And can you remind us, which arm of the patient you had noticed the puncture marks on…’ William drops his head momentarily checking his notes to remind himself of the medical term Mr Richards had just used, ‘the antecubital fossa?’
‘The puncture mark was on her left.’
‘Consistent with the patient having administered it with her right?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘It is interesting then that Jennifer Buckley’s good hand was her right hand,’ he smiles contentedly, his point made. ‘Thank you, Mr Richards, no further questions.’
Mr Justice O’Brien peers over the rims of his glasses and watches as Mr Richards is ushered from the courtroom and waits until everyone shifts back to where they are supposed to be before he speaks.
‘I think at this juncture,’ the judge begins. I take a quick look at the clock above his head on the wall. It’s 12:15. Not quite lunchtime, but probably too close to the break to call the next witness to the stand. We’ll take our lunch break,’ he says nodding at the clerk. ‘We’ll reconvene after lunch at two o’clock.’
When we filter out into the foyer, Kelly is standing there waiting for my team, his phone in his hand. I follow them towards him and, when they don’t ask me to go away, I stand and listen to the exchange.
‘The syringe is bog standard, regular Health Service Executive issue, tracing its origin is of no use.’ Kelly says in reference to the note that was sent to him before William began his line of questioning. ‘The detectives working on it at the time had already looked into it.’ Kelly must have been tasked to pop out and check the detail. ‘They’re the same syringes that most of the health centres and clinics in Ireland use, same manufacturer, same supplier,’ he flipped over a page in his notebook.
‘Yes,’ William answers, ‘but it didn’t arrive ready to be injected in a bog standard HSE syringe. It had to be, at one stage, in some sort of ampoule, some vessel. Why was that never found?’ he squints his eyes closer together.
‘I’ve gone over the crime scene reports, nothing was found
by forensics, the only trace of sodium pentobarbital was in the syringe and its origin is untraceable… There was nothing in the bins, forensics were thorough with that.’ Kelly answers.
‘Where would she have got it though, we need to prove that she organised the sodium pentobarbital herself otherwise…’ William didn’t continue, but I knew what he meant. His whole defence is balancing on the premise that Jenny ended her own life without any interference from anyone, but if they can’t demonstrate that, the finger will remain pointed at me.
‘I know,’ Greg agrees.
‘We’ve already checked out all deliveries to and from 26 Oakley Drive, I went back through all courier’s records, all An Post records, there were no unusual deliveries to the house. Jenny didn’t have a place of work so it wasn’t as though she could have received her delivery there.’
‘Mmm,’ William mumbles. ‘So if it didn’t arrive by mail or courier, Jenny had to bring it into the house with her.’
‘It’s just an observation… but seeing as the case is hinged on casting reasonable doubt over the prosecution’s case by arguing that Jenny did in fact take her own life… I think we may have a problem.’ Kelly says without looking up from his notebook.
‘What?’ Greg was quick to question. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m surprised, it hasn’t come up before now.’ He looks at me, doubt clouding his eyes by the minute.
‘What is it, Kelly?’ William is abrupt, the lack of brevity on Kelly’s behalf making him impatient. ‘Say what needs to be said in as concise and efficient a manner as possible.’
‘Well, if Jenny did in fact take her own life, why would she hide or secretly dispose of the ampoule or vessel that the sodium pentobarbital would have come in?’ He emphasises the if dramatically. William looks at Greg who then looks at me. Kelly has quite a valid point, a point that the prosecution would be able to use to their advantage, if they were aware of it.
‘And we are sure forensics were thorough, nothing was left unfound?’ William asks again grasping at straws.
‘I’ve done my research,’ Kelly coughs and the team seem to know its code for don’t ask me questions that you won’t like the answers to. ‘I’ve talked to my sources and I’m assured by the investigation that the Gardaí conducted at the time that no stone was left unturned. There was no vial or ampoule anywhere to be found, not even in the bins. The only trace of sodium pentobarbital was in that syringe.’
‘So either the sodium pentobarbital came ready to inject in a bog standard HSE-issued syringe, which we all doubt?’ William states looking at each of the assembled team individually choosing his next words cautiously. ‘Or someone disposed of the ampoule that once housed the sodium pentobarbital that ended Jennifer Buckley’s life. Which means that the prosecution are in a prime position to argue, presuming they already know, that at the very least, Jennifer Buckley had help.
‘Or at the worst, was murdered.’ Kelly says abruptly and rakes his fingers through his greying hair. He looks at me then. ‘I need to find the vial that was used, I need to find where it went if we want to find out what actually happened to her. Somebody put it somewhere, whether by mistake or not, and that is the key to unlocking this thing.’
9.
Two Days Before Jenny Died
Sarah twisted the tall stem of her wine glass in between her fingers as she studied him. She tried to pinpoint the moment when Josh Buckley stopped being a child and became the man that sat across from her. He had been just fifteen when Liam had first moved out, a tall, gangly chap with a mop of brown hair and an acne problem that caused many a morning’s consternation in front of the bathroom mirror. But with his involvement in rugby and his constant attention to the gym, his body had broadened, his jaw had become chiselled and as ironic as it was, he was more like his dad than he had ever been.
‘I know you asked whether or not I think your dad should move back in,’ she repeated his question to him trying to buy herself some time. There was so much she wanted to say but didn’t feel she could. ‘But it’s not that straight forward,’ she offered.
‘It can be as straight or as crooked as you want it to be.’ Josh’s voice grew even more agitated than it was before. He rubbed his hand over the dark bristles on his face.
‘It can, I suppose,’ she hunched over her empty glass running her finger around the rim before she walked to the fridge to top it up. The bottle that sat in the fridge door was empty. She turned to look at him and then as though she thought better of mentioning it, she placed it on the counter top, opened another bottle and brought it back to the table. ‘But your mum is a clever lady, she knows what’s she’d doing.’
‘I knew I shouldn’t have bothered my arse with you.’ Josh rolled his eyes, pushed back the chair he was sitting on and stood up, unsure of what to do next. ‘I didn’t think you’d be that weak.’
‘Josh, look, I know you’re upset,’ she paused for a moment, ‘we all are.’
‘That’s just the point, Sarah, we all aren’t,’ he made his way towards the door. ‘Abbie’s losing her fucking mind with the thoughts of the big hero moving back in and that she’s getting to be Daddy’s little girl again. Mum is spouting some shite like it’s all for the best and that he loves us really and now you?’ He turned from her, embarrassed about the tears that were queuing up inside his eyes.
‘Don’t, Josh, your mum and Abbie, they…’ Sarah caught him by the arm and turned him, she hated that he was so upset.
‘They what?’ he spoke more calmly now, but couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘Just sit for another minute, let’s talk this through,’ she walked him back to his chair. ‘Your mum and Abbie, they love your dad as I’m sure somewhere behind all this anger, you do too.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Sarah. He left her, he left us when we needed him most, all so he could shack up with his girlfriend. Seriously, who does that?’ They sat in silence for a moment, both of them lost in their individual thoughts. ‘Do you think he should be moving back in?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sarah answered quietly, honestly. Her thoughts on the matter were too complicated for her to explain. ‘But I do see why your mum might think it’s a good idea.’ She took another sip, the combination of the heat and the tension making her drink faster than she normally would.
‘Don’t be so fucking diplomatic,’ Josh shook his head, fired by the anger that he felt. ‘And stop trying to cover your arse,’ he stopped and took a deep breath knowing that he had gone too far. Sarah had done more for his mum than anyone had ever done. He exhaled and waited until the anger fizzled out some more before he continued. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, I’m just all caught up and I’m being a complete dick.’
‘It’s okay Josh, really, I know this is a very emotional time.’
‘And no matter what you say, I know you hate him as much as me.’
‘Josh, I don’t hate your dad,’ she waited a moment while he discreetly lifted the neck of his T-shirt to wipe his wet eyes. ‘I hate what he’s done to your mum. I hate that he was having an affair while your mum was getting sick. I hate that your mum was so upset when he told her and I hate that your mum didn’t have him to turn to when she finally got her diagnosis,’ Sarah sighed. Was that as unfaultable as she had wanted it to be? ‘And I get it, I understand that you are upset, you’ve every right to be, but I don’t think it’s going to do anyone any good – especially not your mum or Abbie – for you to be getting as angry as this.’
‘Look I’m sorry, I’m sorry for being a shit, I’m just…’ he left his explanation hanging in the air not knowing how to finish it. ‘It’s just that I can’t bear to think of him moving back in and Mum just being a doormat and letting it happen.’
‘She’s not being a doormat, Josh, she just wants what’s best for you and Abbie, she thinks that your dad moving back in will help you all get back together so that... ’ Sarah wasn’t a stranger to hard conversations normally. In her professional life she had no other choice,
but talking about Jenny, her terminal illness and impending death always stopped her in her tracks. ‘Your mum is just thinking about your future, yours and Abbie’s, we all are, and she wants the comfort of knowing that when she is no longer here that you will both have a parent, or someone who loves you, to turn to.’
‘I don’t fucking need him, I’ll be eighteen next month, I can look after Abbie, we don’t need some lying, cheating scumbag pretending to be our dad so that it looks good in the papers.’ Sarah didn’t know what to say so kept quiet. ‘Well, it’s the fucking truth, you know Mum is doing this interview tomorrow about how she wants to live her life,’ he lowered his voice. ‘Or more accurately, how she would end it if she had the choice and, low and behold, the hero, Captain Liam Buckley, straight off his transatlantic flight like he’s Leonardo Di fucking Caprio or something, steps into the breach to help his dying wife and her children?’ Josh shook his head in disgust. ‘He is not just turning up here out of the goodness of his heart and I for one am not going to stand idly by with open arms to welcome him back.’
‘But maybe,’ Sarah hesitated, ‘maybe this is what your mum wants, Josh, maybe we just don’t see the bigger picture like she does and maybe this is what Abbie wants too?’
‘Of course it’s what Abbie wants.’ Abbie idolised their dad, always had and he had never tried to make her feel bad for wanting a relationship with him after he left. As far as he was concerned, if Abbie was happy then so was he. ‘But she’s a fifteen-year-old girl who thinks the world is filled with rainbows and fluffy clouds for fuck’s sake,’ he dropped his head into his hands at the mention of his sister. ‘That’s when she’s not crippled with worry and anxiety that something will go wrong.’
When the Time Comes Page 20
