A Fool for a Client (21 page)

There was something girlish about the way she spoke which stirred Murphy
’
s gentler instincts.
He gave her a chaste kissed on the cheek.

“I
’
ll go and get the food,” he said, depositing the bottle on the table.

Justine smiled as he left the room.
She was feeling her way into the role by instinct now, like a method actress, engulfed in her assigned character.

It was later when they were eating large portions of sweet and sour pork and
Szechwan
chicken that Justine raised the subject that had been on her mind.

“So what was that about being wanted in
England
?”

“Wanted
by
England
.
There
’
s a difference.”

“How d
’
you mean?”

“I
’
m wanted in the so-called United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, or more precisely, in the six British-occupied counties of my country.”

“Why are you wanted there?”

“I committed a political crime in
England
in the struggle for the liberation of the six counties.
But I can
’
t go back to
Northern Ireland
either because at the moment they
’
re under British occupation.”

“What exactly was your political crime?”

“I planted a bomb in a shopping centre.”

“You mean like... one of those incendiary devices that goes off at night and burns out the shop?” she asked hesitantly.

Murphy shook his head.
She watched his eyes, curious to see his reaction.
There was a faint trace of guilt.
But it was only a trace.

“No, it was a couple of fully fledged semtex surprises, and the warning arrived late.”

His manner was mildly apologetic, as if he knew at some level of his consciousness that what he had done was wrong and was pleading in mitigation.
He knew that his intention had been to kill. But she sensed that the pictures of that three-year-old child had been too much even for this would-be man of steel.

“How come it arrived late?”

“The telephone booth that I was going to send the warning from had been vandalized.

“Was anyone killed?”

Murphy nodded.

“Who?”

“A kid and a man called Shankar... Srini Shankar.”

She noticed that he had said “a kid” in such an off-hand way, that you couldn
’
t tell that he was talking about a three-year-old child.
But then again, how do you tell a girl you
’
re trying to get into the sack that you blew up a three-year-old
?

“Srini Shankar?
Sounds like an Indian.”

“What, like Sitting Bull,” he asked, grinning broadly.

“I said an
Indian
, not a native American.

Good, she told herself, pleased with the act she was putting on.
A typical white middle class college girl, more concerned about Political Correctness than the sanctity of human life.

“Oh, that sort of Indian.
Yes he was... Let
’
s eat, before it gets cold.”

He started eating.

“What was he?”

Murphy
’
s chopsticks stopped in mid-air.

“How do you mean?

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That isn
’
t what I mean.
I mean what was his job?”

“Well how the bejesus should
I
know?” he lashed out more aggressively than he intended, the anger of his tone camouflaging the helpless desperation of his guilt, a display of anger being so much more manly than adopting a cringing posture in a plea for absolution.

He started eating again, and this time so did she.
For a while they ate in silence. At least a minute ticked by before Justine looked up from her plate.
Murphy attacked his food like a famine victim at an unexpected feast, glancing up occasionally to study Justine who made it a point to avoid his eyes.
An inner conflict was raging behind that face, and it showed.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said gently.

Her hands and mouth stopped moving for a moment, as if a battery inside her had been disconnected.

“I was thinking about that man you said you killed” she replied.

“I guess I shouldn
’
t have told you about it.
Now you probably think I
’
m a murderer.”

“Do you think of yourself as one?” she asked gently.

“Hardly a day goes by when I don
’
t ask myself that question.
I don
’
t think I
’
m any different from an American pilot who drops bombs on
Baghdad
.
The only difference is they showed the faces of the people I killed in papers.
I had to look at them and

remember them.
And I
’
ll go on remembering them till the day I die.
If I am a murderer, at least I
’
m a murderer with a conscience.”

“How do you cope with the guilt?”

“The same way any soldier does.
I remind myself that the real guilt belongs to the enemy.”

“And who is the enemy?”

“The British government and their occupying army in
Northern Ireland
.”

“Then why target civilians?” asked Justine.

“Why does any army target civilians?
Why did the American Air Force bomb
Hiroshima
or blow up bridges in
Baghdad
?
Civilian areas are part of the economic infrastructure that keeps the government in power.”

“But what about the civilians themselves?
Don
’
t they also have a cause.”

“You really want to know?” he answered bitterly.
“Most people don
’
t give a damn about anything until it starts affecting them.
Then they go off and act all self-righteous, wagging their fingers and preaching morality at people
who
don
’
t have the comforts that they take for granted.
What makes people think they have a right to be indifferent to the suffering of others?”

“Maybe they just haven
’
t got the time to fight against all the world
’
s injustice.”

“That
’
s what I mean,” Murphy snapped.
“They haven
’
t got time.
Perhaps if they weren
’
t so indifferent to the suffering of others they
’
d
find
the time.”

“Hasn
’
t it occurred to you that there
’
s so
much
suffering in the world they couldn
’
t find the time for
all
the world
’
s problems.
It
’
s not that people don
’
t care.
It
’
s just that there are too
many
problems to cope with.”

“That
’
s touchingly naive.
Just go ask some sanctimonious politician who speaks out against
child pornography
.
Ask him if it troubles his conscience that his clothes were made by child labour in a sweat shop in some fascist dictatorship!”

“And you
’
d rather kill the good for the crimes of
the
bad than spare the bad for the sake of the good?”

“I
’
d rather change the world than leave it in the pitiful state it
’
s in
–
oh, I
’
ve just remembered about that Indian.
He was a professor of something... radiology I think.”

He couldn
’
t understand the flicker of emotion on Justine
’
s face.

With the demolition of Ostrovsky
’
s evidence, the game was beginning to look more like a two-sided contest.

When the court reconvened after lunch Abrams called one Detective Albert Cruz to the stand.

Albert Cruz was a tall, lanky man.
He stood six feet two, but seemed taller because of his recalcitrant brown hair which Abrams inferred must surely have impeded the advancement of his career as a plain clothes policeman because of its eye-catching conspicuousness.
His face held an amiable smile.
The prosecutor couldn
’
t understand how a man with such a friendly nature could survive in the rough and tumble world or urban policing.
Parker, who had crossed swords with Cruz before in a legal aid case, knew that Cruz
’
s amiable manner was a facade to win over juries.
He could be a bastard towards his suspects.

The early questions elicited his name and rank as well as some of the more basic information from his service record.
He had won a number of citations for bravery as well as the precinct “conservation award” for low gasoline consumption.
He had played it down at the time His off the cuff quip had been “how much gas can you burn up on a stakeout?”
It had made the rounds of the precinct and become a candidate for “sound byte of the year.”
But the conservation award still sounded impressive to the jury.
All in all, Cruz
’
record read like the résumé of the Golden Boy of the Police Department who could do no wrong.

With these formalities of character and professional qualifications out of the way, Abrams got down to business.

“Could you tell the jury, please, where you were on the night of September the seventh at about nine p.m.?”

“My partner and I were on routine patrol on Broadway.
We got a call to go to the emergency room at
St. Joseph
’
s Hospital.
We went there and were directed to a room where a Dr. Stern was giving treatment to a man called Sean Murphy.”

“Your Honour,” said Abrams, “This witness
’
s identification of Dr Stern was accepted by the defendant through stipulation at the preliminary hearing and I ask that it be entered into the record at this time.”

The judge looked over at Justine.

“Miss Levy?”

“No objection.”

“So ordered.”

“Yes sir I do.
That man over there.”

The identification was written into the record and Abrams proceeded.

“Could you tell the jury please what happened in that room?”

“Sean Murphy made a verbal statement to me which I took down in writing.”

“Did he sign the statement?”

“No, he was too weak to sign it.”

“Did Murphy say anything apart from what you wrote down?”

“Not to me?”

“Well did he say anything to Dr. Stern in your presence?”

“He said
–
”

“Just a moment officer,” the judge interrupted.
“Mr. Abrams this is hearsay and clearly not part of the
res gestae
.

“Your Honour, this question is aimed at establishing foundation for the admission of Murphy
’
s statement to Detective Cruz as a dying declaration.”

A dying declaration, Parker knew, carried the same weight in law as testimony given under oath, and had one distinct advantage over such testimony: it was not subject to cross-examination.
It had to be stopped.
And for this purpose, he was prepared to overstep his watching brief and try to assume the status of Defence Counsel even without Justine
’
s permission, if the judge would let him.

“Your Honour,” said Parker rising, “this whole question was already settled at the pre-trial motions hearing.
If the prosecution wants to re-open the issue then I ask that the jury be sequestered for the duration of the arguments.”