Irish Lady (28 page)

He grinned, leaned across the table and bussed her cheek. “That's what you said last week. Nothing ever changes in here, except perhaps a wee bit more excitement due to the season. What about yourself?”

She hesitated. The latest development wasn't good. She wanted to look at him first, to gauge his reactions, to satisfy herself that he still thought the decision to return and face his trial had been the right one. Meghann knew that if she hadn't been involved, Michael might have taken another road. Escaped prisoners with new identities were living out their lives quite comfortably overseas and in the Republic. There were times, like this one, when she wished she had advised him differently.

Meghann opened her briefcase and pulled out a manila file, avoiding his probing gaze. “There's a situation we've got to sort out, Mick. Do you know Danny O'Rourke and Patrick Feeney?”

He nodded. “Aye. They're intelligence, not insiders but close enough.”

“They were arrested three weeks ago. Since then they've confessed to furnishing information that led to the Killingsworth murder.” Meghann paused and drew a deep breath.

Michael's eyes narrowed. “What is it that you aren't telling me?”

“They claim that Killingsworth was too important a target to be taken out by anyone other than an experienced man, someone implicitly trusted by everyone at the top levels of the organization.” She raised her eyes to his face. “They've named you, Michael.”

He was quiet for a long time. “Poor blokes,” he said at last. “I wonder what was done to them.”

“Your trial is scheduled for Thursday. Bruises wouldn't heal by then. More likely they were promised immunity.”

“I could use a smoke.”

Meghann pulled out two packs of American filtered cigarettes and a book of matches from her briefcase and pushed them across the table. “These will shorten your life, you know.”

He struck a match, brought it to the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply before lifting mocking blue eyes to her face. “Pardon me if that's the least of my concerns at the moment. In case it hasn't occurred t' you yet, Meggie, love, I'm as good as dished.”

“That's not true,” she said defensively, standing up to pace the floor and rub her arms. “I've enough evidence to discredit the glassmaker, and I'll discredit Feeney and O'Rourke as well.”

Michael watched her cross the tiny room, stop briefly at the window, turn and go back the way she came. Her hands were clasped tightly together and her knuckles showed white beneath her skin. She was wound tight as a spring. He ached to touch her, but the three peelers posted outside the windows discouraged him. Instead he spoke softly. “Something is troubling you, Meghann. What is it?”

She stopped, sank into the chair across from him and dropped her head into her hands. “I think I've made a dreadful mistake, Michael, and there isn't anything I can do about it.”

He waited patiently until she had composed herself.

“Andrew Maguire is on the list of the prosecution's witnesses.”

“We already knew that. What difference does it make now?”

She lifted her head and stared at him. “It wouldn't make any difference to a judge. Andrew has no more nor less credibility than you do. Even though he has no convictions, he's IRA. Everyone knows that. The SAS have been trying to arrest him for years.”

“I still don't understand the problem.”

“You will be tried by a jury, Michael, not a judge. Andrew Maguire's standing in the community is beyond question. There isn't a Catholic family in the Falls who doesn't believe he stands next to God.”

Michael reached for Meghann, saw the guard frown and start for the door, and pulled back. “Damn peelers,” he swore bitterly. “They're inhuman.”

Meghann tried to laugh and failed miserably.

Under the table his hand closed around hers. “There's no need for you t' worry yourself like this. You've been away from Belfast for a long time, Meghann. 'Tis highly unlikely the jury will be made up of residents from the Falls. The way I see it, Andrew has no more credibility than I do.”

“They'll try to fill the jury with Catholics.”

Michael shrugged. “I've a few friends in West Belfast, myself.”

Meghann stared at him. “Aren't you concerned at all?”

He laughed and her heart lifted. Dear God, how she loved this man.

He brought the cigarette to his lips and blew out a ring of smoke. “I've been here before. What puzzles me is how you can do this.”

“What do you mean?”

He released her hand and leaned back in his chair. His words were measured and thoughtful, without the slightest hint of censure. “How can a Catholic girl from the Falls administer British justice for her livelihood?”

“It's the best we've got,” she said simply.

His eyebrows lifted.

“It's true. Not that it's always administered properly or by impartial people,” she amended hastily, “but when it is, it works better than anything else.”

Michael's face was impassive. “We'll see if British law applies to Catholics from Belfast.”

Suddenly Meghann was embarrassed. Michael was on trial and his attitude was better than hers, his attorney. “Do you have a suit?” she asked, changing the subject.

Michael was startled. “Yes.”

“You'll need it for the trial.” She straightened, assuming her professional role once again. “We'll be meeting every day until then. I want you to do exactly what I tell you without exception.”

“All right.”

“The Crown will present its case and call witnesses first. I will cross-examine them. I want you to remain seated at all times and make no comments, no matter what is said.”

Michael nodded.

“Do not react to anything. Do not smile, frown, laugh, grimace. Keep your face as blank as possible unless I instruct you to do otherwise. This is extremely crucial, Michael. You must promise me that you'll cooperate.”

“I will.”

Meghann nodded. “Answer only what is asked of you. Do not explain or elaborate unless you are told to do so. Do not speak quickly. Take as long as you need to formulate an answer, and if you're confused, request clarification. Confusion on the part of the accused is lethal. You must be sure of your answers.”

“Anything else?”

Meghann shook her head. There was no need to warn Michael about the tone of his responses. His voice was beautiful, deep, perfectly pitched, rich in quality, and wonderful to hear. It was his strongest weapon, that and his physical appeal. Meghann made a mental note to select as many women jurors as possible.

She looked at her watch. “It's time,” she said softly. One more thing. “Do you know a man named O'Shea?”

He shook his head. “The name doesn't ring a bell. Why?”

“He's on the prosecution's witness list. I'll have Miles check him out. Your mother says to give you her love. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll begin preparing.”

“Look at me, Meghann.”

She did and quickly looked away. “This isn't a good idea.”

“What isn't?”

“We've both got to concentrate. I won't be of any use to you if we forget what's most important.”

“And what would that be?”

“Right now? Securing your release.”

“And later?”

She looked at him again and what she saw in his face terrified her. What if she couldn't save him? “Prepare yourself, Michael,” she said. “God help us both. I have no idea how this will turn out. Prepare yourself for every possible outcome.”

He smiled, a brief turning of his mouth. “There's no trick to that, Meggie. I've lived my whole life that way.”

Thursday dawned bright and clear, a beautiful July day typical of the North of Ireland. Leaving her porridge untouched, Meghann looked across the table at Annie Devlin. The older woman said little and under her eyes were etched the dark circles of sleepless nights. Meghann ached with pity. How many times had Annie been through this? How many children had been tried and sentenced by the Crown?

Annie Devlin was descended from the nationalist aristocracy of West Belfast. Her family had flown the republican flag during the dry years of the thirties, forties, and fifties. She had grown up on tales of Daniel O'Connor and Charles Parnell. Nothing had occurred in her life and her children's that she hadn't anticipated. But she was old now and, of all of her children, Michael was her pride and joy. She'd had different hopes for Michael.

Meghann reached across the table and covered the work-worn hand with her own. “I'm sorry, Annie. I wish I could offer you some guarantees.”

“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 everything 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.”