A Fool for a Client (31 page)

“Thank you Your Honour.
First of all I would concede that the rotovapour may be relevant to this case.
But it is clearly inadmissible because of the way in which the discovery came about.
Evidence obtained in an illegal search is always inadmissible
–
”

“By that I presume you mean
physical
evidence Mr. Parker.
If a person witnesses a crime with his own eyes while conducting an illegal search, the eyewitness testimony is not excluded simply because of the circumstances in which the witness came to see the events.”

“That may be Your Honour, but in this case we
’
re not talking about witnessing a crime.
We
’
re talking about a police officer who conducted a search for one piece of evidence, a legal search admittedly, testifying to the fact that he
saw
another piece of physical evidence
not
mentioned in the warrant.
This was evidence which could not have been introduced in its physical form.
That is, to use your own words Your Honour, an attempt to smuggle illegal evidence into these proceedings through the back door.”

“Mr. Abrams?” the judge invited.

“Well Your Honour, I take the position that this witness
’
s eye-witness testimony on this point is just as admissible as that of the previous witness.
She saw the defendant taking the rotovapour, this witness saw her with it at her home.
If the search had been illegal, then standby counsel for the defence
might
have a point.
But as the search was legal he really has no valid point at all.
The witness saw something relevant; the People have the right to present his eye-witness testimony.
How much weight to attribute to it is up to the jury.”

“I am inclined to agree with you Mr. Abrams.
However, this is a matter that should have been raised at the pre-trial.
Nevertheless, I
’
ll allow the testimony.
Mr. Clerk, bring the jury back.”

The door to the jury room was opened and the jurors were led back.

In the spectator
’
s section another man had just arrived.
It was Tom, the man whom the IRA had sent to stop Declan McNutt from killing Justine.
He had stayed away from the court for a few days because his presence there had not been necessary.
But he had decided to come in today to see how the trial was going.
While killing Justine was out of the question, he wanted to see her convicted as much as everyone in
Ireland
who supported the nationalist cause.
In fact if she were branded a murderess it would certainly benefit their cause.

But when Tom entered the courtroom and took his place he got a shock that felt like a kick in the ribs.
Sitting on the other side of the spectator
’
s section was Declan McNutt.
Incredibly, he had made bail.

“She poisoned me!
The goddamn bitch poisoned me!”

Sean Murphy was muttering to himself as he swung the steering wheel round one way and the other
sideswip
ing other cars and scraping against them.
He paid no heed to the scraping of metal on metal as he recklessly overtook one car after another.

Like so many of his brothers in the cause, it was an article of faith that he was ready to die for his country, and not just to kill for it.
He always thought that he belonged to that elite tiny minority like the hunger strikers who gave their lives by starving themselves to death in British prisons and in the process put the republican cause on the international map by their courage and dedication.

But now when the possibility loomed up ahead, real and recognizable, he was frightened by the vision of oblivion that he saw awaiting him.
He had thought that he had escaped from all this turbulence and found peace at last.
He had done his bit for the liberation of the six counties and now he wanted to be free, to enjoy the good life.
He felt that he had earned the privilege.
He had paid his dues to the cause by risking his liberty and even his life for it.
Now he wanted to get away from the conflict in which he had received and inflicted so much pain and live out his remaining years in the country in which so many of his compatriots had found refuge.

Yet now he was set on a collision course with the grim reaper.
He didn
’
t even have the dignity of dying in the pursuit of his cause.
He was the victim of a vengeful woman who didn
’
t even understand the dispute.

Why me? he thought.
And why her?
What did she have to do with it?
What did she want from me?
She didn
’
t even know what the dispute was about?
Why should she care about some Indian professor or some one else
’
s child?

Not all bully
’
s are cowards.
But a great many are.
And there are as many forms of cowardice as there are of courage.
Murphy had brushed with death many times before in the course of his INLA operations.
But in the past, the danger had been camouflaged by the excitement of the mission and the
smouldering
remnants of anger that drove him to it.
But here, for the first time, he was staring death in the face, without the usual distractions.

So now when he found himself looking out
at a nameless void and an etern
ity of oblivion, the fear welled up in the pit of his stomach and he realized how futile it had all been.

The hospital parking lot was reserved for hospital staff, with the area for ambulances round the back.
But Murphy was so totally engulfed in fear that he didn
’
t care.
Nothing was going to stand in the way of his pursuit of survival now, just as he had let nothing stand in the way of his pursuit of the liberation of the six counties.

He drove straight into the parking lot, nearly hitting a doctor who was opening the door to his car.
As Murphy
’
s car screeched to a halt by the hospital entrance he dived out and sprinted into the building.

“She poisoned me!” he said frantically to the girl at the reception desk.
“The slag poisoned me!”

People were staring at him openly and mothers were shielding their children from this angry intruder as if they sensed that this hysterical man was capable of violence.

“Your name sir,” said the girl with deliberate calm.

“What the fuck does it matter!” he exploded.
“Didn
’
t you hear what I just said!”

His face was white with fear.
The girl, realizing that rules of procedure hadn
’
t prepared her for this sort of situation reached for the telephone.

“Doctor Stern please,” she said.

While she waited for Dr. Stern to come to the phone, the receptionist felt a tinge of sympathy for Murphy as she saw the look of desperation in his eyes.

“Look, I need that reference!” said Parker belligerently.

“I
’
m sorry young man.
But that volume is in use by some one else.”

He was standing at the desk of a law library, facing the librarian, a stern
-
looking woman.
She reminded him of one of his elementary school teachers, a formidable, elderly spinster, a sort of archetypal Miss Thistlebottom.
He could almost hear her priggish voice correcting his English grammar.

“But this is an emergency!” he almost shouted.

“We can
’
t just go up to some one who
’
s looking at a law volume and take it away because some one else wants to look at it.
You
’
ll just have to wait until it
’
s free”

“But that could be hours!”

“That may be.
But there
’
s nothing I can do.
And I would be grateful, young man, if you would refrain from shouting.
This is a library.”

“All right,
I
’
ll
do it.
Just point out who
’
s got it.”

“Don
’
t be absurd,” said the librarian, stiffly.
That sort of information cannot
possibly
be given out.”

“Look, I
’
ve got a client who
’
s facing a murder rap...”

He trailed off, seeing a look in the librarian
’
s eyes.

“Is this what you
’
re looking for?” asked a familiar voice behind him.

He turned round to see Abrams standing there with a large volume.

“Is that...”

“The Murphy extradition case,” Abrams confirmed.

Half an hour later the concrete grid of the Big Apple was spread out before them a hundred storeys below them as they sat at a corner table of the restaurant at the World Trade
Centre
.

“And you mean to say that some bastard of a judge wouldn
’
t extradite Murphy because his crime was politically motivated?” asked Parker incredulously.

“That
’
s what the man said,” replied Abrams, not entirely blasé, but tempered by bitter professional experience and numb to this kind of judicial perversity.

“Planting a bomb that killed two people, including a three year old child!”

“Judge
’
s are recruited from the legal profession.
And we both know there are more than a few ass-holes in our mutual profession.”

Abrams
’
apparent agreement had a pacifying effect on Parker.
As he sat in this luxurious restaurant, Parker looked out through the sheet of glass at the concrete network of roads and buildings of
New York City
.
As the image before him changed continuously in a succession of undulating waves, he experienced the sensation that was almost like flying.
But the thought of a three year old child lying torn and twisted in the debris and rubble of a man-made tragedy and a murderer walking away from a courtroom laughing at the system of justice which he had cheated was still playing on Parker
’
s mind.

“I wouldn
’
t might betting that the judge secretly sympathized with their cause.”

“You
’
re right there kid,” said Abrams.
“He even made a few anti-British remarks just to make sure everyone knew where he was coming from. He threw in a speech about Irish people who were accused of planting bombs and turned about to be innocent after spending years in prison, but when it came to the formal covered his ass against an Appeal Court reversal by saying that it was because of the so-called political nature of the crime, not the weakness of the evidence.
It
’
s not the first time this has happened.
Can you imagine if it was the other way round?

“
But that still doesn
’
t justify what your client did.”

“Judging by the way she demolished Ostrovsky I
’
d say it
’
s not too clear at this stage what she did.”

Parker looked away from the window and polished off his Ogen melon filled with prawns.

“Tell me something Rick, if you thought your client was ready to plea bargain, would you advise her to make a deal?”

“Why?
Are you offering one?”

“I
’
d be ready to give you negligent homicide and five years probation.”

“You think the judge would go along with that?”

“Hal?
Sure he would.
I think he
’
s quite taken by your client.
At any rate he recognizes that she doesn
’
t belong in prison.
And I recognize it to.
I don
’
t know what drove her to do what she did.
Maybe hearing those reports about a three-year-old child blown to pieces by a bomb made some sort of impression on her.
She had a rough childhood with her father.
Maybe it was because the other victim was a doctor.
I
’
ve had people turning the case upside down and we still haven
’
t come up with an answer to the question of motive.
But whatever the reason.
She isn
’
t evil and she
’
s not likely to do it again.
She doesn
’
t belong in prison.
But she does need help,
counselling
.”