by Anne Emery
That hope dimmed further on the morning of the trial, when O’Reilly outlined for his client what to expect.
“The prosecutor will be calling six witnesses.”
“Six? The church secretary, obviously. Who else?”
“That’s how many they need to nail it, the way they see it.”
“To nail me. Who are the witnesses?”
“The parish secretary, a couple of peelers, an eyewitness who saw suspicious behaviour at a rubbish skip, a ballistics expert, and a pathologist.”
“Pathologist? Nobody died on my watch. What am I missing here?”
“The doctor will testify about a man who died of gunshot wounds. And one of the RUC peelers is a ballistics expert. He’ll say that the bullets dug out of the murder victim were fired from the gun you took from Saint Matthew’s. That goes to motive of course, your motive. The reason you took the gun out of there was to pervert the course of justice with respect to a murder investigation.”
But that couldn’t be! There was nothing to which the bullets could be matched, because the body of that poor young backpacker was still buried. Wasn’t it? None of this made sense, least of all the idea that he would threaten to kill a defenceless woman in a church office.
“Well,” he said, “let’s hope the judge will see that I am sincere and credible when I get up there and explain —”
The look on O’Reilly’s face stopped Brennan in his tracks.
“What now?”
“Brennan, we are not putting you on the stand.”
“But then we only have the word of the coppers and poor Mrs. McNally who must, understandably, have been terrified. And she thinks it was me. But of course it wasn’t. If I can explain . . .”
“If you were to take the stand and testify in your own defence, you would be asked why you were at Saint Matthew’s setting up a plan to retrieve the gun, how you knew it was there, and whom you were retrieving it for. Would you really want to get up there and implicate that person or those people, whoever they are?”
Of course Reddy O’Reilly, the “well-known Republican solicitor,” knew perfectly well that the gun was connected with Brennan Burke’s family members in Belfast. Brennan said, “Well, obviously I wouldn’t answer any questions about, em, you know . . .”
“How do you think that would look for you in the eyes of Mr. Justice Rupertson Pound?”
“Right, right, I know.” What had Monty Collins been telling him all these years from his experience in court? The defendant is not required to testify. He can decide not to take the stand, and the judge is not allowed to use that against him. “So,” he said to O’Reilly now, “I exercise my right to remain silent, not testify, and not incriminate myself. I get it.”
O’Reilly laughed. “No, you don’t get it, Brennan.”
“Eh?”
“You cannot be forced to testify. That much is true. But the judge is entitled to draw a negative inference from the fact that you chose not to do so.”
Brennan was nearly sputtering at this point. “But isn’t that a right an accused man has, and it can’t be used against him?”
“That right has been abolished here with the stroke of a pen. Legislated out of existence. As we say here, ‘If your punter decides not to the take the stand, chooses not to incriminate himself by speaking, that by itself can incriminate him.’ What did I tell you, Father? You are no longer in the world you once knew.”
* * *
On Monday, September 18, 1995, Father Brennan Burke’s trial for terrorism-related offences got underway in the Crumlin Road Courthouse. Brennan was showered, shaved, and dressed in a dark grey suit with a snowy white shirt and navy tie. Redmond O’Reilly assured him that the barrister he had briefed for the trial, Pearse McKendrick, had a vast amount of experience in these courts. And McKendrick certainly looked impressive and unflappable as he took his place at the barristers’ table in the courtroom. O’Reilly explained that he, O’Reilly, would continue to confer with Brennan; McKendrick’s job was to conduct the trial.
The prosecutor was a whippet-thin man with the imposing name of Osborne Wickersly Hull. He, like the defence barrister, was decked out in a curled grey wig for the performance.
The judge sitting alone in the Belfast Crown Court did not inspire a great deal of confidence in the man whose life was in his hands. O’Reilly had been circumspect when Brennan had asked him about Mr. Justice Rupertson Pound. “He’s been known to acquit.” Acquit whom? Acquit how often? When was the last acquittal? One look at the bewigged, cold-eyed, hatchet-faced oul bastard who was to preside over Brennan’s fate gave Brennan a chill.
Seated slightly below the judge’s bench were the clerks. Next were the lawyers at a large table in the well of the courtroom. The Crown and defence barristers faced the judge’s lofty bench; the solicitors sat opposite them with their backs to the judge. Redmond O’Reilly nodded at Brennan, whose place in life now was the prisoner’s dock. Behind him was the public gallery. There were armed police at all the entrances. There were no Burke relations in the gallery. Nobody had to spell it out: everyone in the family knew that a public association between the accused “terrorist” and a “well-known Republican family” in full view of the judge would not serve any of them well. And, of course, Tomás could not show his face anywhere near the courthouse. Or the witnesses.
The first witness was the parish secretary, Mrs. McNally. The poor woman clearly had the janglers; she did not want to be there. As distressed as he was about his own situation, Brennan’s heart went out to her. She was sworn in, and the prosecutor, Osborne Wickersly Hull, asked her to identify herself. Then the questioning began.
“Mrs. McNally, please tell the court what happened at the Saint Matthew’s presbytery on the twenty-seventh of February of this year.”
Her eyes darted to Brennan and away again. “I was working in the office, straightening things away before going to our noon Mass, and he came in.”
“Who came in?”
“The priest. Or, I mean, the man who was dressed as a priest.”
“Do you see that man in the courtroom today?”
She nodded her head without looking at anyone.
“We need you to speak your answer, Mrs. McNally.”
“Aye, he’s here.”
“Could you point him out to us, please?”
She pointed a trembling finger at Brennan.
“Let the record show that the witness has identified the defendant, Mr. Burke. Now, Mrs. McNally, how was the man dressed?”
“In clerical clothing. Roman collar, under his jacket. He certainly looked like a priest to me.”
“What happened after he, Mr. Burke, arrived?”
“Well, he did some play-acting, or I assume now that’s what it was. Pointed to his throat, pretended he’d lost his voice. He seemed very pleasant, really. Good-humoured. Or so I thought at the time.”
“What did he say, or communicate to you?”
“He was soaking wet and sneezing, and he mouthed words at me that he’d lost his voice. And I invited him in, and he took a holy card with the Blessed Mother out of his wallet, and wrote a note on it saying he’d come to look at Samson and Goliath and could I ring a taxi for him. I said I would, and then I had to be off to twelve o’clock Mass. I said he could stay and dry off a wee bit until the taxi came. I left for Mass and was wishing I’d offered the poor man a cup of tea.”
“And then?”
“He was gone when I got back after Mass and I never saw him again until . . . until the time with the gun!”
“Now you say you saw him a second time. What day was that?”
“The seventh of March.”
“And what happened that day?”
“I went in to the office early as I always do. I work from half six in the morning to half two in the afternoon, so I can see my grandchildren after school. An
d I’m up early anyway, and we have a seven o’clock Mass in the morning.”
“Right, so that morning . . .”
“I got to the door, put in the code to turn off the alarm. He must have known I would do that! So I was working at my desk and all of a sudden I heard this crashing noise in the cellar. And I was afraid because I thought I was alone in the building, and I heard that noise. As if somebody was there.”
“So what did you do?”
“I ran out into the hallway and I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs from the cellar. And then he was just there! Right in front of me.”
“And did you recognize the person as someone you knew?”
“Well, not right away.”
“What was the person wearing?”
“He had on an anorak. Or a raincoat with a hood pulled up over his head. And his face was covered up to his eyes.”
“What did you notice, if anything, about his eyes?”
“That they were very dark.”
“What else can you tell us about his appearance?”
“He was tall. And I could see black hair under the top of his hood.”
“How was the lighting where you were standing?”
“Well, of course the sun had not come up. And even when it did, you’d not be able to find it for the rain! When he was there, the hallway was a wee bit dark. But I could still see him!”
“Was there any light on at all?”
“Yes, in the office behind me, so there was a bit of light.”
“Now who did you think this person was?”
“At first I didn’t know. Only later on after I’d called the police and thought things over, I remembered that priest coming to the office. And I thought to myself, That’s him!”
“And why did you think that?”
“He was the same size, big and tall, and the black hair and the dark eyes on him. And I started wondering if he came that first time for some other reason besides getting out of the rain. Maybe he wanted to find out how to break in!”
Pearse McKendrick was on his feet. “Objection, My Lord. Speculation.”
The judge turned to the witness. “Just tell us what you saw and heard, Mrs. McNally.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honour!”
The prosecutor resumed his examination. “Did you go down to the cellar after this person left?”
“Only after the police came.”
“And was there anything you noticed in the cellar?”
“Dust all over the floor. Or, well, on parts of the floor. And I looked up, and a few of the ceiling tiles were crooked. Out of place. The dust was under those tiles.”
“Had you seen the tiles out of place like that before?”
“Never. I go down there to file things away and never saw anything like that.”
“Now about the gun you mentioned earlier, Mrs. McNally, is there anything you can say about the type of weapon it was?”
“I wouldn’t know one from the other, so.”
“Big gun, little gun? Long? Short?”
“A handgun, not a rifle or anything like that.”
“If Your Lordship pleases, I should like to show the witness a handgun that we shall be entering into evidence through another witness later in the trial.”
And there it was. Where had they found it? Tom said he had buried it deep in a rubbish bin. Now here was Hull cradling it in both his hands and holding it up before the witness.
“Does this look like the gun you saw that day?”
“Sure it does but, as I said before, they all look alike to me.”
“Fair enough, but you would say it is similar?”
“It is.”
“Just for the record, had you ever seen that gun before, at Saint Matthew’s or anywhere?”
“No, never.”
“You didn’t place it in the cellar or anywhere else at the church?”
“No, of course not!”
“Now what position was the gun in when you first saw it? Where was it?”
“It was in his hand.”
“In the hand of . . .”
“The priest. Or the man that came in.”
“The man you identified at the start of your testimony? Mr. Burke here in the courtroom?”
“Aye, him.”
“And he was holding it how?”
“Well, just, you know, the way you’d hold a gun.”
“The handle of the gun was where?”
“In his hand, the normal way it would be.”
“And the barrel?”
“It was pointing out.”
“Out towards what?”
“In my direction.”
“What was your reaction to that?”
Her eyes ventured in Brennan’s direction for a split second, then refocused on the prosecutor. “I was afraid.”
“What did you do or say?”
“I tried to make up a story. I pretended I had called the police. I know it didn’t make any sense that I could have called them that quickly, but that’s what I told him.”
“Did Mr. Burke say anything to you?”
“He said something like, ‘No police and you won’t get hurt.’ Or ‘I won’t . . .’ Oh, I don’t know exactly. My nerves were going on me. Like they are in here today.”
“That’s understandable, Mrs. McNally, with someone pointing a gun at you and having to come to court and —”
“Objection, My Lord.” Pearse McKendrick was on his feet.
“On what grounds, Mr. McKendrick?”
“My learned friend is misquoting the witness’s testimony.”
“I don’t see how, Mr. McKendrick.”
“She did not say he was pointing the gun at her.”
The prosecutor took up the argument and said, “The gun was pointing in her direction, My Lord. With all due respect, I think my friend’s objection is off the mark.”
“Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Hull.”
“What happened next, Mrs. McNally?”
“He came towards me.”
“Still holding the gun.”
“Right. And I was terrified, and I jumped out of his way. And he left.”
“Please describe your feelings to us, the feelings you had when he was standing in front of you holding the gun.”
“Well, as I said, I was terrified. I thought he must be . . .”
“Yes?”
“One of the . . . terrorists.”
“Would you say you felt threatened?”
“Objection!” McKendrick was on his feet again. “Leading!”
The judge said, “Just describe your feelings in your own words, Mrs. McNally.”
Which was a cinch now that she had been given the right word to use. “I felt threatened by him, with that gun.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McNally. My friend may have some questions for you.”
Pearse McKendrick stood and spoke gently to the witness. “I won’t keep you long, Mrs. McNally. I know this is difficult for you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m going to take you back to the first few minutes when you were in the office with a priest on February twenty-seventh. What kind of conversation did you have, if any?”
“Well, it was conversation on my part, and mouthing on his part. But it all seemed friendly. He’d come to see the cranes, was all wet, needed someone to ring for a taxi. And he saw our church, so . . .”
“Did that man give you any reason for concern? At that point, I mean.”
“Well, no, not then. He was . . . I thought he was very nice.”
“And did you have any concerns about leaving him in the office when you went to Mass?”
“No, I didn’t see any reason to be worried then.”
�
��Now eight days later, on March seventh, you heard a noise in the cellar and you went out and saw a man in the corridor. A man with a gun.”
“I couldn’t believe my eyes!”
“Now I’d like you to do something if you would, Mrs. McNally. Just close your eyes and pretend none of this is here.” His hand took in the judge, the prosecutor, the courtroom. “I know it won’t be easy to wish this all away!”
She laughed and said, “I wish I could!” Then she turned to the judge in alarm and said, “I’m sorry, Your Honour!”
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, and McKendrick resumed the exercise. “Just unclench your hands.” She laughed a bit again and eased her hands apart. “Close your eyes.” She did so. “And think back. Take your time. Try to picture the parochial house at Saint Matthew’s and the man and the whole scene as it unfolded. I’ll give you a few moments to do that.”
The prosecutor’s impatience was obvious, but he restrained himself from commenting.
After thirty seconds or so, McKendrick spoke in a calm, quiet voice. “Just describe to us what you are seeing and hearing, Mrs. McNally.”
Her voice was quiet as well. “He’s standing there, with the gun and a surprised look on his face. I mean, what I can see of his face. His eyes and eyebrows. He looks nervous. Upset, like. And I’m telling him the police are coming, and he says they’re not. Or there’s not going to be any police. Something like that. And then he says, ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ And when I think of it now I realize I believed him! After the first shock of it, I felt sure he wasn’t going to hurt me.”
“What about his voice? Is there anything you can tell us about that?”
“Just normal. He’d got his voice back.”
“Accent? Anything about that?”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t remember.”
“Nothing stood out in that regard?”
The prosecutor rose with an objection. “Question asked and answered, My Lord.”
“I’ll allow it. You may answer, Mrs. McNally.”
“I just don’t remember, so I guess nothing stood out.”
“How long were you in the corridor with the man, can you estimate it at all?”
“Not long. Only a few seconds, and he was gone in a flash.”
