Irish Lady

by Jeanette Baker

  “Aye.” Annie sighed. “I was thinkin’ that the good Lord is hard on mothers, especially the mothers of sons.”

  Meghann’s eyes watered. Horrified by her unprofessional behavior, she pressed her fingers against her eyes and stood. “I’m not really hungry,” she said. “Do you mind if we leave early?”

  “You go on, Meghann. Davie and Connor will be here soon, and Bernadette said she’d bring the car. I’ll see y’ there.”

  Meghann nodded, kissed Annie, and picked up her briefcase. There was nothing more to say. Assurances were out of the question. The evidence on both sides was just short of circumstantial. Everything depended on the jury.

  The moment she stepped outside she could feel the tension. The air itself quivered with rage and fear and a heightened sense of expectation. Voices were muted. Women who normally took their babies outside for a morning walk stayed inside, the prams empty. Even the dogs were silent. Teenagers hurried back and forth with odd pieces of wood and twisted metal, hubcaps and rubber, tires, bottles filled with suspicious-looking liquid, old toys, bicycles, clothing, any fuel they could get their hands on. The bonfires protesting the Orange marches would be especially big tonight. Tomorrow was the twelfth of July, a national holiday in the North. Springfield Road, where the Peace Line ran between the Falls and the Shankill, would be a line of glowing fires, some as high as twenty feet.

  Her stomach knotted. There would be violence and British tanks on the streets today. Someone’s child, brother, sister, mother, or father would be injured or killed, just as they had been last year and the year before that and every other July 12 that she could remember.

  Pressing the remote to unlock her car, she climbed in and pulled down the rearview mirror to check her lipstick. Something in its reflection caught her attention. Her appearance forgotten, she turned to the block wall at the end of the street, in bold red letters, each one six feet high, were the words, Free Michael Devlin. Meghann turned the key and swung the car around, making her way down the road. She turned left toward Mackies’ factory and saw it again, this time in black. By the time she’d passed the Springfield and Ormeau Roads, she’d seen at least six different references to Michael’s internment. Apparently he did have friends in the Falls.

  Meghann pulled out onto Lisburn Street and chafed at the delay. Small parades of Orangemen in bowler hats and orange sashes marched down the street to the beating of drums and the cheering of spectators waving the Union Jack. In Belfast during the weeks leading up to the twelfth, the parades were small and less controversial. The Orangemen marched through strictly Protestant areas. Tomorrow the route would change, drinking would be excessive, and the mood would be ugly as the marchers wound their way through the Catholic neighborhoods of the Falls, Andersonstown, and Portadown, streets whose curbs and flagpoles were painted green, white, and orange, the color of the republican tricolor, streets that were now inhabited by Catholic families.

  The drums, the cheering, and the thick Belfast accents grated on her ears. Where was it written that such a flaunting display of one-upmanship should be tolerated by a downtrodden community? Why didn’t the British government with their policy of neutrality stop this nonsense that resulted in more and more anger and sectarian killing every year?

  A police officer wearing the yellow vest of the RUC knocked on her window. Meghann pushed the automatic button and it rolled down.

  “Sorry, Miss, but you’ll have to go around. The parade’s coming this way.”

  “I’m due at the Crumlin Road courthouse in fifteen minutes. This is the only way.”

  “You’ll have to park and walk. This is the parade route.”

  Anger, long-repressed and lying dormant, flared to life in Meghann’s chest. “This isn’t a holiday. I don’t give a damn about the parade. Clear the way and let me pass.”

  There was something in her eyes that made the young RUC officer think twice about refusing her request. Lifting his whistle to his lips, he blew three loud, long blasts, clearing a path among the crowd of spectators blocking her way.

  Meghann inched her way through, ignoring the ugly murmur swelling through the mass of people. Hands pressed against her windows. Faces peered in at her. She’d nearly made it to the courthouse when she heard a shout through the tinted glass. “It’s Devlin’s lawyer, the bitch who’s defendin’ the Taig murderer.”

  A wall of bodies pressed close to the car. Thick fingers found their way to the edge of the glass where she’d left the passenger window rolled down nearly an inch. Meghann felt the car rock. At the same time she slammed her palm against the lock and pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The car leaped forward, separating the crowd. She heard a howl of pain, more cursing, and then she was through.

  Moments later, in the Crumlin Road car park she rested her forehead against her arm. Her fingers ached from their grip on the steering wheel and perspiration beaded her forehead. The metallic taste of fear coated her tongue, and every word of her opening statement had faded from her mind. They hated her as much as they hated Michael, maybe even more because she was the vehicle through which he might escape his sentence.

  Nearly twenty minutes passed before her heart stopped its erratic pounding. After another ten she felt composed enough to cross the car park, settle the barrister’s wig on her head, shrug into her robes and enter the courtroom.

  Miles French was seated at the table beside Michael. When he caught sight of her he released his breath audibly.

  Michael, heartbreakingly handsome in a dark suit, watched her cross the room. He winked, took another look at her face and frowned. Meghann smiled shakily and slid into her chair.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked softly.

  “I’m grand, Michael,” she assured him, “just grand. How long have you been here?”

  “They brought me in early this morning.” He grinned. “I expect no one wanted to start a riot.”

  “Is there a chance of that happening?”

  Michael studied her face for a moment before answering. She looked as if she were under an enormous strain. The hollows of her cheeks were more pronounced than they’d been a week ago, and shadows marked the skin under her eyes like giant purple bruises. “Are y’ worried?”

  “Did you cross the parade route this morning?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you saw the lettering.”

  He nodded, “I told you I had friends in the Falls.”

  “It won’t help you, Michael,” she said desperately. “They’ll only make an example of you. Somehow, you’ve got to convince these people to do nothing at all.”

  He lifted one eyebrow incredulously. “How shall I do that, Meggie? At the moment I’m a guest of the Crown.”

  “There must be some way you communicate. I’m quite sure nothing goes on in that prison without everyone on the streets knowing about it.”

  Michael leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Let’s just manage today, shall we? You look as if y’ could use a long holiday. Either that or one of those Irish coffees you’ve acquired a taste for.”

  Meghann leaned forward. Fierce hazel eyes locked with blue. “You must promise me, Michael. You must promise me that you will not allow your trial to become an excuse for killing.”

  He met her gaze steadily. She looked away first. “You’ve lost touch, Meghann,” he said. “Otherwise y’ wouldn’t even suggest such a thing.”

  Before she could defend herself, the courtroom clerk stood and asked everyone to rise in anticipation of the entrance of His Honorable Lord Justice, Charles Flewelling. Flewelling walked into the room, adjusted his robes, and sat down. Lifting his gavel, he brought it down hard. Jury selection had begun.

  Two days later, Meghann looked down at her list of jurors. The sick feeling in her stomach had escalated to a severe ache. She’d used up all of her exceptions, and only three of the jurors were even remotely sympathetic to the nationalist cause. Two more were working-class Protestants from the Shankill. She’d tried every
thing she knew to expose their bias, but she hadn’t been able to shake them from their neutral positions. There was a dentist from Lisburn, a teacher from the Malone Road, and the wife of an investment banker. The remaining four were middle-class, professional Catholics living near the university. Meghann hadn’t been able to discern their politics, but she had the distinct feeling they wouldn’t be sympathetic to a bloke with an IRA blot on his past.

  She closed her portfolio and rose. They were the best she could do. There was no way around it. “The defense is satisfied, my lord,” she said crisply.

  The judge turned to the prosecution. “Is the jury satisfactory, Mr. Cook?”

  The chief prosecutor stood. “Quite satisfactory, my lord.”

  Justice Flewelling lifted his gavel and let it fall. “The jury stands. Jurors will remain on notice until requested to appear. Prosecution will begin their arguments at the voir dire hearing tomorrow. Court is recessed.”

  Michael leaned over and spoke into Meghann’s ear. “What’s happening?”

  “A voir dire is a trial within a trial,” she explained. “The judge will decide whether certain evidence is admissible. It could last a few days or several months as witnesses are questioned and cross-examined.”

  He smiled grimly. “In other words, a Diplock court.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” she admitted. “However, I believe it’s our best chance.”

  The bailiff approached. Meghann held up her hand. “I need a moment more, please.”

  He hesitated. She flashed him a brilliant smile and he retreated to a position near the door.

  “Precedent has already been set,” she continued in her low, clear voice. “Paddy O’Meara’s conviction was overturned completely because a portion of the evidence gathered against him was the result of duress. We’re fortunate that this judge was the very man who overturned the evidence. He’s a fair man, Michael. It won’t be easy, but there’s certainly a chance.”

  Light from the ceiling lamps caught the tiny flecks of white in his irises, turning them to blue ice. “If everyone tells the truth,” he said softly.

  She nodded. “If everyone tells the truth.”

  ***

  Meghann arrived at precisely quarter past eight the following morning, one hour before Michael’s hearing was scheduled to begin. It was a practice she had acquired years ago primarily to settle her nerves and plan her presentation. Meghann understood the power of a first impression. Because this was a high court she was able to walk about freely with access to both the jury and the witness box.

  She arranged her notes, pen, and paper neatly on the dark wood table and looked around, measuring the distance from where she sat to the back of the courtroom. She stood and measured off the paces to the jury box, the witness stand, the table, and back to the jury box. The room was empty, small by the Old Bailey standards. With more luck than she could hope to expect, an opening argument wouldn’t be necessary. Most lawyers wouldn’t bother preparing one until the hearing was settled. But Meghann was different.

  Beneath her pragmatic exterior, hidden behind the polished sophistication of an English barrister’s cloak and wig, lurked a soul formed by generations of Irish superstition. Her logic was simple Murphy’s Law. To forego preparing an opening argument would be an act of confidence bordering on pride. Meghann, a child of St. Mary’s Hall, had learned her lessons well. Pride was a sin and it came before a terrible fall. To prepare an argument and not use it was preferable to needing it and not having it. A bit of practice never hurt either.

  Deliberately, she pitched her voice at a level that would reach the back yet not overpower the jurors in the front, and recited her opening argument. “Your Honor, my worthy colleagues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We are not here in this courtroom today to judge a man for the sins of his past. After all, who among us has not reproached himself for acts committed in the foolishness of youth? Would that we could call back those days of impetuous behavior, of reckless irresponsibility, of apologies not made, and consciences not cleared.”

  She walked over to the jury box. “But, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we cannot. Was Michael Devlin an ardent nationalist? Yes. How could he not be? Raised in the streets of West Belfast, what young man is not fed tales of revolution? Who, whether he is nationalist or loyalist, is not tempted by stories of heroism? Coupled with unpleasant choices such as immigration or unemployment, the young men of working-class Belfast are seduced into behavior not normally considered by children of other neighborhoods. This trial is not about a young man’s mistakes. This trial is not about retribution.”

  She took a deep breath and walked back to the table where Michael would be seated. “Michael Devlin has long since realized the depravity and pointlessness of violence as a solution to the troubles of Northern Ireland. This trial, ladies and gentlemen, is not about Michael Devlin. This trial is about murder, the murder of a man respected by everyone in the nationalist community, a man considered by Michael Devlin and the Catholic population of the Six Counties to be the answer to the troubles in Northern Ireland. The evidence presented here will prove that Michael Devlin not only did not murder James Killingsworth but that his hopes for peace were dashed by the unfortunate demise of a man he admired greatly.”

  She stood for a moment, visualizing the jury, allowing the silence to expand, the words to sink in. Then she sat down and looked at the agenda for the morning. There would be no drama for the hearing. The judge was experienced, a man known for his ability to ignore histrionics and sift through the facts until he came to the clean, uncomplicated core of the issue. Meghann knew Charles Flewelling by reputation although she had never met him. He was a man who could not be influenced. She laced her fingers together. This case could very likely be the most difficult she had ever taken on.

  Six hours later, Meghann watched the worst piece of theater she had ever witnessed and wondered why she had ever chosen the law as a profession. Torpedo-shaped bomb casings, sharp metal cuttings, nails, and bolts littered the judge’s dais. He lifted cynical eyes to the prosecution. “What is the purpose of this rubbish, Mr. Cook?”

  The prosecutor pulled a Browning automatic from a bag and introduced it as evidence. “This, your lordship, is a gun recovered in the Republic. It is the gun that was used to kill Mr. Killingsworth and injure his daughter. This gun is the personal property of Michael Devlin.”

  A slender blond woman rose from her seat in the courtroom. Tears streamed down her face as she stumbled into the aisle and out the door. Meghann recognized her immediately. She was Pamela Killingsworth, the widow of the murder victim.

  The judge leaned forward, his expression a mixture of contempt and rage. “Take this away immediately. I will not have such theatrics in my courtroom, do you understand, Mr. Cook?”

  The prosecutor’s face flamed with embarrassment. He obeyed the command instantly. “Yes, your lordship.”

  Meghann sighed with relief. There would be no cross-examination on this issue. She stood. “Your lordship, I call Michael Devlin to the witness box.”

  The tension was thick in the silent courtroom as Michael strode to the box. The bailiff swore him in. Meghann waited until he had settled into his seat and fixed his eyes on the judge as she had instructed him. “Mr. Devlin, please tell this court everything that happened to you at Castlereagh Interrogation center.”

  He detailed everything, in a voice as rich and smooth as French cream. Rarely had such a precise account of horror been told with such lyrical beauty. By the time he’d finished, more than a few in the public gallery had resorted to their handkerchiefs.

  Meghann was not one of them. Deliberately, she kept her eyes on Michael’s face until he’d finished. “Thank you, Mr. Devlin,” she said before taking her seat.

  Mr. Cook rose and buttoned his jacket. “You said that the police recorded your interrogation, Mr. Devlin?”

  Michael’s eyes never flickered. “That’s correct.”

  The prosecutor looked smug. �
�But there are no electrical outlets in any of the cells, Mr. Devlin. Were the recorders battery operated?”

  “No.”

  “On what power were the machines run, Mr. Devlin?”

  “On electrical power.”

  Cook appealed to the judge. “I submit that Mr. Devlin is lying. There are no power outlets in the cells of Castlereagh. He has lied about his internment, he has lied about his interrogation, and he has lied about his involvement in the murder of James Killingsworth.”

  The judge looked at Meghann. “Would you care to cross-examine, Miss McCarthy?”

  Meghann flipped to the back of her portfolio and pulled out a grid. “I would like to submit a photo of the barracks at Castlereagh, your lordship. Every cell has two electrical points.”

  After a startled silence, the courtroom buzzed with conversation. “Enough.” Charles Flewelling pounded his gavel. “Shame on you, Mr. Cook, for not giving this issue your personal attention.”

  Mr. Cook was nearly purple. “May I ask for a recess, your lordship?”

  “You may not. Bring your next witness.”

  “I call Mr. Patrick O’Shea to the stand.”

  The bearded man with the massive shoulders and the bewildered expression looked faintly familiar, but Meghann couldn’t place him. She frowned and glanced at Michael. His face was unnaturally pale. “What is it?” she asked.

  Michael leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Did you know about him?”

  “His name is on the witness list. You said you didn’t recognize the name.”

  “I didn’t. But I do recognize him.”

  Frustrated, Meghann watched as the man was sworn in. His was a face that was easy to read and Meghann saw that he was not pleased with his position. He took a long time to settle comfortably. The prosecution approached the box. “State your name, age, and place of birth.”

  “Patrick O’Shea, thirty-two, Donegal, Ireland.”

  Cook pointed to Michael. “Do you recognize that man?”