Though the Heavens Fall

by Anne Emery

  “Now tell us again about the lighting.”

  “There was no light on in the hallway, so it was dim. But there was a light coming from the door of the office.”

  “Is the door to the office directly opposite the door to the cellar?”

  “No, the cellar door is down a ways. Not right opposite.”

  “And where is the gun when the man is standing there?”

  “Well, he’s just holding it.”

  “And the way he is holding it?”

  “Just the normal way. I mean, he isn’t going to give it to me, so he isn’t holding the handle out towards me to take it. The barrel end of it is kind of hanging down.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McNally. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Those are all my questions.”

  Right, thought Brennan. He had had enough conversations with Monty Collins to know that one of the most important skills acquired by a trial lawyer is to quit while you’re ahead. He remembered Monty saying younger lawyers sometimes don’t have the confidence to leave well enough alone and abandon the rest of the questions on their lists. But that was obviously what Pearse McKendrick was doing here. He now had the witness on record saying the barrel was pointing down. Not directly at her. Thank God and Mrs. —

  Brennan’s train of thought was interrupted by the judge. He leaned towards the witness and said, “You told us earlier that he was pointing the gun at you, Mrs. McNally. Do I have that right?”

  “Well, I guess so. I . . .”

  “How tall are you, Mrs. McNally? Approximately.”

  Brennan could see the sudden tension in Pearse McKendrick’s posture. And that of Reddy O’Reilly, facing him across the room from the solicitors’ bench.

  “Tall? Not very!” Mrs. McNally replied. There was some laughter — not unfriendly laughter — in the courtroom. “But I’m over five feet!”

  “Thank you. Any redirect, Mr. Hull?”

  Of course there would be redirect. If the prosecutor hadn’t had new questions for the witness two minutes ago, he certainly did now.

  “Could you be a wee bit more specific for us about your height, Mrs. McNally?”

  “I’m five feet, one and a half inches tall. I got measured at the doctor’s surgery when she took my weight. I hope you’re not going to ask me about that!”

  “No, certainly not, Mrs. McNally. So when the defendant, Mr. Burke, arrived at the office that day, you would have had to look up to engage in a conversation with him, look him in the eye?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did. I do with most people! Men, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McNally. Those are all the questions I have.”

  Hull, too, had the tactic down cold: quit while you’re ahead. Now that you have, with the judge’s thoughtful prompting, established the difference in height between Brennan Burke — Tom Burke! — and the secretary. Now that you have set up your argument that the gun would of necessity be “pointing down” when the man was pointing it “at her.” Brennan could see the anger in Reddy O’Reilly’s face, but the solicitor held it in check.

  The second witness was an officer of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Detective Inspector Glenn Hobson formally entered the Browning pistol into evidence as Exhibit One. He testified that this was the same gun that had been found on April 19 during a search of a landfill outside the city. Hull asked him what had prompted a search of the landfill on April 19. The officer said that reliable and confidential information had come into the possession of the Royal Ulster Constabulary about a paramilitary incident that had occurred some years back. And the information indicated that the gun used in that incident had been taken to the property of Saint Matthew’s church and concealed there. The officers recalled the report of a gun being brandished at an individual at Saint Matthew’s in early March of this year. That prompted questioning of residents of the area around the church, and a witness recalled seeing someone behaving suspiciously around a rubbish skip. The witness was not a local resident but a businessman heading to the building site. He had not given it another thought until he was questioned.

  “So we knew which skip and which landfill area to search. It was a huge operation with metal detectors and other means, and we eventually unearthed the pistol.”

  The prosecutor told the judge that he would be calling other witnesses who would corroborate the evidence that this was the gun at issue.

  After Hobson came the businessman who was walking to work in east Belfast early on the morning of March 7, and saw in the distance a man in rain gear climbing down from a rubbish skip beside the building site. He assumed the fellow was a skip diver, someone who roots around in skips and rubbish bins for articles of interest. Could he describe the man? No, he was too far away to see anything but the dark-coloured rain jacket with a hood up.

  After that was another member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Constable Orville Smith identified himself, was duly sworn, and Osborne Hull began his examination.

  “Constable Smith, could you tell us about an incident you were called to on March eighteenth of this year?”

  “Yes. I was called to respond to a shooting in west Belfast.”

  “Where exactly in west Belfast?”

  “The Falls Road.”

  “Tell us about that.”

  “I was dispatched to the scene of a shooting outside the Banned Flag bar just after half eight at night.”

  The Banned Flag? The assassination attempt? What did that have to do with this gun, with the charges against Brennan here?

  McKendrick was on his feet. “Objection, My Lord. Irrelevant!”

  “I’ll allow it. Proceed, Mr. Hull.”

  “Go ahead, Constable Smith.”

  “When we got to the Banned Flag we found Ronan Burke on the ground outside the bar. He had been shot and wounded.”

  “You knew that because . . .”

  “He had blood coming out from his body onto his clothing. And witnesses described a shooting. They told us two men had just fled the scene in a vehicle.”

  “Now, you said the man on the ground was Ronan Burke. Could you tell the court your understanding as to who Mr. Burke was? Who he is?”

  “Objection, irrelevant!” McKendrick protested again. To no avail. The judge directed the cop to respond.

  “He is known to us, well known here in Northern Ireland, as a leading figure in the Republican movement. And as a former high-ranking person in the Provisional IRA. Second in command in Belfast.”

  Pearse McKendrick was furiously scrawling notes on his legal pad.

  Hull continued the questioning. “Were there other people with Mr. Burke that night, Constable?”

  “A priest was tending to him after he was wounded.”

  “Were you able to identify the priest?”

  “Aye. He was Brennan Burke, cousin of the IRA man, Ronan Burke.”

  Pearse McKendrick tried again. “My Lord, the defence objects to this obvious and irrelevant attempt to link my client with paramilitary activity.”

  The prosecutor responded, “The purpose of this evidence, My Lord, is merely to demonstrate how the police knew the name of the man they later arrested on the charges before this court today.”

  “Objection overruled.”

  The peeler then told the court how they had put two and two together and determined that the man at Saint Matthew’s fit the description of the man who had been seen alongside Ronan Burke, and the arrest was made after that. The cop entered into evidence papers that documented Brennan’s family’s immigration to the United States from Dublin when Brennan was a young boy, his work history in the U.S. and later in Canada, the times he had travelled to Ireland, and his entry into Northern Ireland earlier this year.

  The judge announced that the court would adjourn until two o’clock that afternoon.

  “All rise.”

 
Everyone stood as the judge left the courtroom and the trial broke for lunch.

  Reddy O’Reilly abandoned his courtroom sangfroid and let loose when he and Brennan were in a room together, unobserved. “That performance with Mrs. McNally! Fucking outrageous! Not that I haven’t seen it in this court before.”

  “The judge cross-examining the witness, you mean.”

  “It’s one thing for a judge to ask for clarification of an uncontroversial point. But here was His Lordship taking on the role of prosecutor, helping Osborne Hull get the job done, wiping out the advantage we had just gained when the woman said the gun was pointing downwards. She virtually admitted that the man was just holding it, as she said, ‘in the normal way.’ He was hardly going to hold it by the barrel, so he held it by the grip and of course the barrel was pointing outwards. Now the judge has enabled Hull to project the evidence in a way that has a man over six feet in height, if he’s the same height as you, pointing the weapon down at wee Mrs. McNally. What do you think of Belfast justice so far, Brennan?”

  “It’s everything I thought it would be. But more so.”

  “And then there’s the evidence of the Banned Flag incident, the entire purpose of which was to connect you to the ’RA.” O’Reilly took a breath and started to speak again.

  But there was a knock on the door, and a man appeared, asking to speak to Reddy. The solicitor excused himself. When he came back, his rage had escalated from atomic to thermonuclear.

  “What now?” Brennan asked.

  “Surprise witness.”

  “Fuck. Who is it?”

  “Someone who is going to speak to the ‘perverting the course of justice’ charge. Someone who, according to Osborne Hull, was unknown or at least unavailable until this very afternoon. Hull ever so thoughtfully offered to adjourn until tomorrow or the next day if we wish.”

  “Should we do that?”

  “There’d be no advantage in doing that. No advantage either way, I mean. Today or tomorrow, it’s all the same.” He plopped down in his chair and put his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through the copper and silver hair. “The same fucking shite, no matter what we do.”

  After a minute or so, he pushed himself up and said, “I have to go and discuss this with McKendrick, Brennan. You’ll go and have your lunch, and, as they say, I’ll see you in court. I’m sorry I have to leave you like this, but —”

  “I know.”

  Brennan was taken to a holding cell to eat his lunch. He could barely look at whatever it was they had slopped on his plate. All he could think of was the new development in the case, the new and unexpected witness — whoever he was — and the hopelessness he had seen on the face of his lawyer.

  * * *

  Back in the courtroom, O’Reilly came over to Brennan and whispered, “This is an individual who has turned Queen’s evidence.”

  “That doesn’t sound —”

  “Doesn’t bode well at all. He’s turned on his fellow conspirators and is now assisting the Crown and has been promised immunity from prosecution.”

  “Which, for us, means . . .”

  “He’ll say whatever they want him to say.”

  “Jesus the Christ who suffered and died on the cross!”

  “And when the curtain rings down on this charade, they’ll whisk him away, put him in hiding somewhere with a new identity, and he’ll never be seen in these parts again.”

  Sitting there waiting for the inquisition to resume, Brennan wondered, What conspirators? What conspiracy?

  “All rise!”

  Court was now in session, and security was even tighter than it had been before, as a twitchy young fellow was brought in to testify. He had a narrow face framed by long, lank, dark hair; his eyes were fixed on the middle distance in front of him. He swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and the questioning got underway.

  “Please state your name for the court.”

  “Colman Davison.”

  The name meant nothing to Brennan.

  “Mr. Davison,” the prosecutor asked, “have you had any involvement with paramilitaries in this city?”

  “I have.”

  “Could you expand on that for us, please?”

  His eyes flickered over the assembly, and then he steeled himself before saying, “I’ve been involved with the Ulster Defence Association and the Ulster Red Hand.”

  There were mumbles throughout the courtroom in response to the admission.

  “And these are Loyalist paramilitary groups?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you know a man named Francis O’Dwyer, sometimes called Fritzy?”

  “I didn’t know him personally, but I knew who he was.”

  “What was your understanding of who O’Dwyer was?”

  “One of the hard men with the Provos.”

  “The Provos being . . .”

  “Provisional IRA.”

  “And Mr. O’Dwyer’s role as you believed it to be?”

  “Enforcer, killer, that sort of a bloke.”

  “Were you involved in an incident on fourteen November, 1992, connected with Mr. O’Dwyer?”

  “I was ordered to shoot Fritzy.”

  There were gasps throughout the courtroom. Brennan, from long practice, was able to conceal his reaction. But this trial was spiralling even further out of control than it had been in the morning. What in God’s good name did the charges against Brennan have to do with the murder of the IRA man back in November of 1992?

  “And did you carry out those orders?”

  A long silence. “I had to.”

  “Who ordered you to shoot Mr. O’Dwyer?”

  Davison’s eyes flew up to the gallery, then down again.

  “Shall I repeat the question? Who ordered you —”

  “The boys from Andytown.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘the boys from Andytown’?”

  “Andersonstown IRA.”

  Oh, God. It was all Brennan could do to maintain his composure.

  “So you’re telling us the IRA ordered the murder of one of their own number and hired you to do the killing?”

  “I wasn’t hired; I was forced.”

  The prosecutor paused to take a drink of water. “Now, Mr. Davison, what kind of weapon did you use to carry out the shooting in 1992?”

  The answer was as predictable as a forecast for rain tomorrow in County Down.

  Lord, have mercy on me, Brennan prayed silently.

  “A Browning Hi-Power nine millimetre pistol.”

  “I am going to show you Exhibit One.” Hull held the gun up before the witness. “Is this the gun you used on Mr. O’Dwyer?”

  “Aye.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell by the look of it. Those scratches around the barrel. And, besides, they tested it and found that it was the gun that fired —”

  “Objection,” said McKendrick. “This witness is not competent to testify to that.”

  “Sustained.”

  But of course it didn’t matter. The court would be hearing all about the bullets, all in good time. Meanwhile, the damning testimony continued. And then it was Pearse McKendrick’s turn to cross-examine the witness. He held a whispered conference with Reddy O’Reilly before facing Davison.

  Brennan wondered what kind of strategy had been discussed. But what was consuming him now was the reference to the boys from Andytown. The Burkes of Belfast were boys from Andytown, and it was Ronan’s son Tom who had set the wheels in motion for the return of the gun. For now, though, all Brennan could do was listen to whatever this man Davison was going to say next.

  McKendrick asked the witness, “Mr. Davison, how did it come about that you, a Loyalist paramilitary, were selected by the Irish Republican Army to carry out this assignment?”r />
  “Fritzy was a psycho and a killer, and he was a liability to them. They wanted him dead.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. Shall I repeat the question? Why you?”

  “They knew me.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  Davison swallowed and seemed unable to speak.

  “Mr. Davison. What was your connection to the IRA that resulted in you being chosen for this assignment?”

  Again, even though he had been assured of immunity from prosecution, the man could not bring himself to state the obvious. He was not immune from whatever retaliation would be meted out to him on the streets of Belfast, should he ever be spotted in the city again. But someone else favoured the court with the answer.

  “You’re a fookin’ tite, Davison! A fookin’ tite!” A ruckus erupted at the back of the courtroom as those who had denounced Davison as a fucking tout rose in their seats and were swiftly grabbed and hustled out of the room by the police.

  “No further questions, My Lord.” And McKendrick sat down.

  It was Colman Davison’s turn then to be taken from the court surrounded by a phalanx of armed police officers. His work was done. And everybody now knew that he, a Loyalist, had been an informer for the enemy, the IRA. Colman Davison was about to begin a new future as persona non grata in the country of his birth.

  Davison was followed by a pathologist, who testified that O’Dwyer had died in the early morning hours of November 14, 1992, of multiple gunshot wounds. He described the effect of the various wounds. Brennan tuned him out. McKendrick did not bother to question him.

  The final witness was a ballistics expert who confirmed that the five bullets taken from the body of Francis O’Dwyer on November 14, 1992, had been fired by the gun that was in evidence before this court.

  “And,” Osborne Hull asked the witness, “can you tell us anything about the circumstances of Mr. O’Dwyer’s death?”

  “Only that he was shot multiple times with that weapon.” He pointed to the gun, Exhibit One in the trial. “Other aspects of the case are subject to a current and active investigation.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”