Irish Lady (29 page)

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?”

O'Shea narrowed his eyes and stared at Michael. “Aye.”

“How do you know him?”

“Him and his wife was stayin' in Donegal for their holiday.”

“When was that?”

“Spring it was, over a year ago, the twenty-second of April.”

“How can you be sure of the exact date? After all, it was more than a year ago.”

“My wife went int' labor that very night. After four girls, we had a son.”

Cook handed the judge a piece of paper. “Let the evidence show that last spring Michael Devlin escaped from Long Kesh Prison and remained at large for nearly six weeks.”

Meghann froze. Mr. Cook's next question came as if from a long distance. “Did he give you his name?”

The man shook his head. “Seems t' me he told it, but I don't remember.”

“Do you remember his wife?”

Again the man nodded.

“Please speak up, sir, for the recorder.”

“Aye.” He pointed at Meghann. “She's right there beside him.”

Mr. Cook placed another piece of paper before the judge. “Let the record show that the witness has pointed out Meghann McCarthy, counsel for the defendant, and that for the period of time between April 27 and May 23, Miss McCarthy was on extended holiday from her office.”

Behind her, someone gasped. Miles French leaped to his feet. “Objection, your lordship. Miss McCarthy is not on trial here.”

“Overruled.”

“Permission to cross-examine?”

“You may do so, Mr. French.”

Deliberately, Meghann willed her features into an expression of cool control. Somewhere deep within her, her blood pumped and her organs functioned normally while her mind recorded the unbelievable words spoken by the prosecutor. Beneath the soles of her shoes, the floor was hard and cold. Minutes passed. She concentrated on Miles French's next question.

He squared his shoulders. “Mr. O'Shea, are you absolutely certain that the woman you saw in Donegal was the woman you see before you? And if so,” he continued before the man could respond, “will you tell the court what it is that is so distinctive about Miss McCarthy that you remember her after more than a year has passed? May I remind you that you are under oath, Mr. O'Shea, and that the penalties for perjury are severe.”

O'Shea stared hard at Meghann. “Her hair is darker and she's thinner, but otherwise—”

“You've made an outrageous accusation, Mr. O'Shea, and now you tell the court that the woman's coloring and build are not even the same?”

The prosecutor leaped to his feet. “Objection, my lord. A woman's hair color may vary.”

French waved his objection aside. “Yes, yes, Mr. Cook. Hair color may change, eye color may change, weight may change. Next we will hear that Miss McCarthy and this unknown woman were not even the same height.”

“That will be all, Mr. French,” broke in the judge. “Miss McCarthy, I am prepared to recess this court until tomorrow morning. Is that acceptable?”

“Quite acceptable, your lordship,” Meghann replied crisply.

“Very well. Court is recessed until tomorrow at half past nine.”

She smiled tenderly at the slight form huddled beneath the blankets. Even in the deep restorative sleep Nuala had forced upon her, Meghann clutched the locket as if it were a lifeline. And why not? It had never failed her before. It would not fail her now. Nuala would see to it. This young woman, born with a nature so serene, so capable of loving, who had already suffered such irreparable wounding, would suffer no more.

Nuala was determined that this time Meghann would find happiness. Otherwise, why would she have been called through the hazy portals of time to offer the guidance of the spirit world, guidance offered to a select few?

Placing her hand on Meghann's forehead, Nuala concentrated, sending the energy from her brain down through her arm and the tips of her fingers, setting in motion thoughts that would lead to a satisfactory conclusion to this muddle.

Meghann breathed more easily now, and there was a slight curve to the corners of her mouth. Nuala nodded and stepped back. Unconsciously she rubbed away the strange feeling beneath her eyelids and then stopped in amazement. She was Nuala O'Donnell of Tirconnaill and she was very near to weeping.

***

Michael looked across the visitor's table at his mother and smiled bracingly. “Don't look like that, Ma. It will come about.”

Annie fidgeted with her handkerchief. “What about Meggie?”

“Mr. French handled it well. Meggie won't be harmed.”

“Will it be enough, do y' think?”

Michael nodded. “Meghann's firm, Thorndike and Sutton, trained her well.”

Alerted by the change in his voice, Annie tightened the grip on her purse. Why had he emphasized the name
Thorndike
and
Sutton
? She knew the name of Meggie's firm. Carefully she listened as Michael continued his conversation. Was there anything important that she was missing?

Suddenly he reached out and gripped her by the arms. Startled, she allowed him to pull her halfway across the table where he kissed her full on the mouth. Annie nearly gagged as he forced a small wad of paper past her lips with his tongue.

She maneuvered the wad into the side of her cheek and wiped her mouth. “I'll be leavin' now, Mick,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Good-bye, Ma.”

Annie emptied her pockets and submitted to the pat-down without comment. A woman guard rifled through her purse and handed it back to her. Without a word to anyone, she climbed on the bus, yawned with her hand over her mouth, and stared out the window. Only after she was safely inside her own home with the bathroom door shut did she unfold the ball of paper, slip on her glasses, and read the tiny print.

Breathing deeply, she shredded the note into pieces and dropped it into the toilet where she watched it flush away. Then she walked into the sitting room and called Connor at the
An
Phoblacht
news office, amazed at the normalcy of her words and the cleverness of her excuse. “I'm not feelin' well, Connor. Will you stop by the grocer and bring home some soup?” She had never bought canned soup in her life. Connor would know something was up.

He was home before she could change her dress. Quickly, she relayed Michael's message, leaving nothing out. Connor listened to his mother, whistled softly, and walked out the door to carry out his brother's plan.

***

The courtroom was filled to capacity. Charles Flewelling walked to his chair with a menacing scowl. Meghann busied herself with the papers before her, avoiding his eye. She knew the prosecution had scored valuable points yesterday, but for some reason it seemed less threatening in the light of a new morning. She planned to move forward as if nothing had happened, performing her role with such cool professionalism that the idea of Meghann McCarthy aiding an escaped prisoner was unthinkable.

The bailiff stood. “Court is in session,” he announced.

Over the rim of his glasses, the judge looked pointedly at Meghann. “Is the defense prepared to begin?”

“Yes, my lord,” Meghann said.

Miles French interrupted smoothly. “My lord, after yesterday's testimony, the defense would like to call a new witness, Mr. Cecil Thorndike, to the stand.”

“So added, Mr. French.”

Beside her Michael tensed. Meghann's eyes widened as the door opened and Cecil took his position in the witness box. The words of the oath and Cecil's response floated past her ears. What was he doing here, and why had Miles called him without consulting her?

“Please state your name, your position, and your relationship with Meghann McCarthy.”

“Cecil Thorndike, partner in the law firm Thorndike and Sutton. Lady Sutton was a colleague and partner at Thorndike and Sutton.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Nearly ten years.”

“Describe your perceptions of Lady Sutton, Mr. Thorndike.”

Cecil cleared his throat and looked directly at Meghann. His cheeks were very pink. “Meghann is a barrister of excellent repute, conscientious, competent, and devoted to her clients.”

Miles changed the subject. “Do you recall the evening of April 22, Mr. Thorndike?”

“I do.”

Meghann closed her eyes. Cecil wouldn't lie. What in bloody hell was Miles doing to her? Under the table, Michael's hand found hers and squeezed briefly.

“Tell the court what you remember, Mr. Thorndike.”

“Meghann had been feeling unwell for several days,” Cecil began. “I was concerned and dropped around to check on her.” The clipped Oxford English sounded so legitimate. No one would ever believe that the scenes he called up were fabrications. “She told me she was thinking of leaving Thorndike and Sutton. Naturally, I was shocked. I argued with her quite strongly before leaving.”

“Why do you remember the specific date, Mr. Thorndike?”

Cecil looked incredulous. “Never, in the history of the firm, has a partner chosen to leave Thorndike and Sutton. It is a date I am not likely to forget, Mr. French.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thorndike.” Miles sat down.

Meghann schooled her expression into one of polite interest. Every muscle ached and her eyes burned with the effort. Cecil Thorndike, an uninspiring barrister with only a modicum of intelligence, had saved her at great risk to himself. Cecil, a man she had silently ridiculed, had made the journey from London, most likely against his father's wishes, to defend her in a terrible lie. How would he hold up against the prosecution? Meghann looked down at her hands and prayed.

“I have no questions for the witness.”

She looked up in surprise. Mr. Cook sounded reluctant, as if he hadn't meant to say what he had. He was staring at Cecil, a bewildered expression on his face. All at once Meghann understood. Despite his credentials and his blue suit, Ian Cook was working-class Irish. Cecil, in his expensive double-breasted suit, tailored shirt, and immaculate shoes, was English aristocracy. It didn't matter that Cook was twice the lawyer, with a brain that if pitted against Cecil's in another courtroom would leave it gasping in the dust. Cook was shanty Irish and Cecil was a gentleman. That was enough to give one man credibility and the other an inferiority complex.

“You may step down, Mr. Thorndike,” said the judge.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Beside her, Meghann heard Michael release his breath. She watched as he turned, found his mother in the second row and smiled.

The hearing was nearly over. The prosecution entered the name of one more witness, Andrew Maguire, the hero of Catholic Belfast. Charles Flewelling would not be susceptible to the IRA leader's charm but if Maguire's story was in direct contradiction to Michael's, Meghann knew Flewelling would have no recourse but to take the case to trial. Unless she could prove Maguire had ulterior motives, his word would stand over Michael's.

Mr. Cook rose. “I would like to call Andrew Maguire to the witness box.”

Maguire, in a brown suit that exposed too much wrist, took the stand to be sworn in.

“State your name, address, and occupation, please.”

“Andrew Maguire, 63 Kashmir Place, Belfast. I'm a barman at Keneally's pub.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

“I do.”

“In what capacity?”

“We met twenty years ago at—” He broke off, his sentence unfinished.

Meghann heard the squeaking hinges that signaled the opening of the courtroom door. She would not have looked around but for Maguire's reaction. He was unable to continue. The color drained from his face, leaving it leeched and doughy.

Confused, Meghann turned. Framed in the doorway, making no move to take a seat, was Georgiana Reddington. She was dressed in the tight bell-bottomed jeans and leather jacket that had been her statement twenty years before. Her eyes, fixed on Andrew Maguire's face, held no warmth. She stood there for a full minute absorbing the curious stares from the crowded room.

Meghann turned back to Andrew. His color was still bad but his control had returned. “Michael Devlin and I grew up in the Falls. The community is a small one. Everyone knows everyone else.”

“Was your relationship distinguished by anything else?” Mr. Cook asked.

“We are both nationalists and members of Sinn Fein.”

Mr. Cook was clearly frustrated. “Is there another organization of which Mr. Devlin is a member?”

A hush filled the room. Andrew looked at Michael. Their glances met and locked. Meghann sucked in her breath and laced her fingers together. Somewhere behind her a clock ticked, one minute, two.

“Would you like the question repeated, Mr. Maguire?”

“No.” The word was expelled in a rush of breath. “I am unaware of any other organization to which Michael Devlin belongs.”

Ian Cook was furious. “You are under oath, Mr. Maguire. I will rephrase. Is Michael Devlin a member of an illegal organization?”

“None that I am aware of.”

The prosecutor hovered over his witness. “Did you not tell me in your own words that Michael Devlin was a member of the Irish Republican Army?”

Meghann stood. “Objection, my lord. Counsel is badgering the witness. After all, Mr. Maguire is a witness
for
the prosecution.”

Flewelling's eyebrows rose. “Quite right. Objection sustained. Rephrase the question, Mr. Cook.”

Ian Cook was breathing heavily. “No, thank you, my lord. I have no further questions.”

Meghann turned once again to look at the door. Georgiana was gone.

The judge interrupted. “Will the defense cross-examine?”

“No, my lord,” Meghann answered. “The defense rests.”

“You are excused, Mr. Maguire.”

Flewelling rose. “Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning. All parties will report back here at nine o'clock for my decision.”

Michael's brow wrinkled as he watched Meghann slide her notes into her briefcase. “Who was that woman?”

“What woman?” she asked innocently.

“The blond who castrated Maguire on the witness stand.”

Meghann sighed. “It's a long story, Michael. Tomorrow, when this is over I'll explain it all to you.” She frowned. “Did you have anything to do with bringing Cecil here?”

He grinned. “Tomorrow we'll both have a story or two to tell. Are you up t' it?”

She laughed, liked the way it made her feel, and laughed again. “I can't think of anything I'd rather do than listen to you tell a story.”

He leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Given enough time, I could come up with something even better.”

If the courtroom were empty and Miles French not less than two feet away staring curiously at the two of them, she would have wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shoulder. Instead she mumbled under her breath. “I'm sure you could.”

“Where did you get the woman?” Miles asked as they walked together to the car park.

Meghann told him. She had nothing to lose. “Andrew Maguire was going to lie. I used Georgiana O'Conor to blackmail him into telling the truth.”

Miles stared at her incredulously. “That's all? Surely there's more to it than that.”

Meghann pressed the button on the remote, unlocked her car and threw her briefcase into the back. Folding her arms across her chest, she leaned against the door and surveyed the man before her. “I don't know what you did, Miles, but I must warn you. Don't ever take a risk like the one you took with Cecil Thorndike again. You'll lose your reputation and your career.”

He looked down at his shoes. “If I were you I'd worry about my own career.”

Meghann's eyes narrowed. “Why don't you tell me what's really going on.”

Miles met her accusing glare. “You don't want to know.”

“Let me guess,” she said quietly. “Michael was set up by the British government. The same British government who publicly refuses to consort with terrorists has one hand in the IRA's pocket. How else could Andrew Maguire have offered Michael a lesser sentence if I dropped out of his defense and allowed you to take over as lead counsel?”

She was bitterly, coldly angry. Sunlight reflected off the sideview mirror, bathing her face in a golden glow. Miles wondered why he'd never noticed that hint of green behind the whiskey-gold of her eyes. Suddenly, she looked very Irish. “Let it go, Meghann,” he said softly.

“Who did it, Miles? Who decided that James Killingsworth was too liberal to be prime minister of England? Who decided that he was a threat to the status quo in Northern Ireland and that an innocent man should go down for his murder? Tell me, Miles. It had to be someone powerful enough to make the rules.”

“Don't do this, Meghann. You'll only endanger yourself.”

She could hardly bear to look at him, but she had to know. “It didn't turn out the way you expected, did it? Will you be slapped on the wrist because you didn't know about Georgiana and because Cecil turned out to be decent?”