A fool for a client, p.10
A Fool for a Client, page 10
“You're a fine one to talk,” said Padraig sneeringly. “Where were you when our boys were being killed in the fight against the British? You weren't always active in the struggle”
“No, but I always sympathized with the cause.”
“Sure,” Padraig sneered, “and you were recruited not because of your skills or courage as a fighter and not even because you're such a great speaker. It was because of your good looks. Because you look pretty and photogenic in front of a TV camera.”
“If that's intended as an insult it isn't going to work, because it confirms the point I'm trying to make. In a country where the ability to win an election is governed by sound bites and appearance rather than solid ideas it was deemed expedient to have the public persona of our cause represented by a well-groomed, photogenic young woman like me. You can't expect the average American to understand our cause, and nor do we want him to. He might end up thinking that we're living in the past instead of adapting to the present and building towards the future. That's the way the Americans think, with their total lack of any sense of history.”
“Well if they're that shallow then why should we care what they think?”
“Because we still need the financial support of the Irish-American movement and the support of their judges against extradition. We've eliminated most of the competition in drug smuggling with the punishment squads, but that isn't enough to cover the costs of weapons, even with cheap imports from the former Soviet Bloc. We need the deep pockets of the Irish-American community to keep us in business. And we needed their demographic support for judges who won't extradite us when we use America as a place of refuge. We have that support at the moment because State judges are elected and some areas have large Irish American communities. But if the Irish American community itself turns against us, we lose our power base.
“That's why I trained and studied my ass off learning how to 'do press' as they say there. I learned how to present brief snappy sound bites, how to heckle at potentially dangerous arguments and steer the discussion away and how to break the flow of the other person's arguments by well-timed interruption. Why do you think I accused her of condoning child molesting? It brings out the disgust and revulsion of Middle America, the political mainstream that controls the floating vote. Child molesting is always a good one because it doesn't have to be proved. It's enough to make the accusation to swing the tide of public opinion against your opponent. Accusations of child molestation come cheap, but they can be a deadly weapon when they're used right.”
“Now it sounds like you're boasting about character assassination,” said Padraig in a sneering tone.
“I'll let you into a little secret Padraig. I have nothing against that woman. I even feel rather sorry for her. But her reputation was a casualty of war, just like the toddler and the doctor were casualties of war. Sean Murphy killed two people in the cause of the liberation of Ireland. I assassinated that woman's character in the pursuit of that same cause. I didn't like it, but I had to do it. But the one thing I didn't do is create sympathy for her. I didn't say that her son deserved to die, or that his death didn't matter. I attacked her and suggested that she had wronged her son too. I put her on the defensive. There's no point killing a few British soldiers and civilians if we end up losing the battle for public sympathy in the country we get our major financing.”
“And what's that got to do with us?” asked Padraig defiantly.
“What I'm trying to tell you, is that if you kill the Levy bitch now, we'll look like cold-blooded murderers. Maybe you can kill her after the trial is over when she's in prison. You can make it look like a drug-related prison killing. We may even be able to help you with that. We have contact with Black liberation groups in America and we might be able to cut a deal with them.”
“And what if she's acquitted?” asked Padraig, sarcastically.
“That show's how little you understand of the American scene. She's not going to be acquitted. We already know the case against her from the Grand Jury hearings. She left her prints all over the bottle with the poison and she has no valid defence. The one thing she might have been counting on was the sympathy of the jury. But in this case she's lost their sympathy by being too hard. She's made it clear that she isn't the poor little orphan girl, but the tough and vicious bitch who lured a man to his death with her body and then poisoned him with cold-blooded premeditation.”
“Juries in America often go against the evidence. Remember those four police storm troopers who beat up that black man?”
“That was different. In that case the judge helped the storm troopers beat the rap by transferring the case away from the place where the crime was committed to an area where a lot of cops and ex-cops lived. He did it on the pretext that the storm troopers couldn't get a fair trial in the area where they beat up the motorist. To secure the acquittal of a guilty person in the face of conclusive evidence to the contrary all you need is the right jury. But you have to know how to get it. Justine Levy doesn't. That's why she's going to lose. You'll note that she challenged all the soft-headed, faint-hearted people off the juror. What she's got there is a convicting jury. Only like you, she's naive when it comes to playing politics is America. She doesn't know the rules of the game. That's why she's painted herself into a corner. That's why she's going to be convicted. And when she is, then she'll be at our mercy. It's very easy to kill a person in prison, you know. It's just a case of slipping the word to the right person, and maybe also some money.”
“Well assuming you're right, what's this to do with me?” asked Padraig, nervously.
“Let's not play games Padraig,” said Veronica. We know that you and Declan were behind the assassination attempt on the Levy girl.”
“Well what if we were? The assassin is dead and the Levy girl is still alive, so there's no more to be said.”
He tried to rise from the armchair, but the “heavy” behind him pushed him back down again. The man was almost as strong as Declan and Padraig knew that he had no chance of leaving against this man's will, which in turn meant without Veronica's permission, as she was calling the shots.
“I'm afraid there is Padraig, because we know how you people operate. The assassin was killed a few days ago. That means you're probably already planning to send another. We can't afford to let that happen. So we need to know who you're planning to send.”
“I don't know,” said Padraig, the fear welling up inside him.
The gorilla behind him silently clamped his arms round the back of the chair, while the other started tying him up. Now the fear was twisting inside him like a knife.
“It's the truth I'm telling you. You know what Declan is like! he plays his cards so close to his chest you're lucky if you can get a glimpse of them! Why don't you ask him?”
“We would,” Veronica replied. “But we don't know where he is. Now perhaps if you'd like to tell us that we can bring him here and ask him these questions.”
The heavy was now tying his legs to the castors of the armchair.
“I don't know where he is. He finds me when he needs me. I never know where he is. You know how paranoid he gets.”
“Yes,” said Veronica. “And we also know how you're scared shitless of him and wouldn't want him to know that you betrayed him. That's why you wouldn't tell us where he was even if you knew it. But that's also why we have to ask you these questions.”
“But how can I answer them, when I don't know the answer me-self?”
“We think you do, Padraig,” said Veronica, and we have to find out. We mean you no harm, but we have to find out who, when and where.”
The larger of the two IRA men was now rolling up his left trouser leg while the other was opening a case. As the bigger man stepped aside, the other took out an object shaped vaguely like a gun. But it wasn't a gun: it was an electric drill.”
Padraig's eyes filled up with tears and his stomach was torn by terror as he realized what was about to happen.”
“I'm telling you the truth! I don't know what he's planning.”
“We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way,” said Veronica. “But one way or another you'll give us the truth.”
The heavy was plugging in the drill and switching it on...
“I'm telling you the truth!” Padraig screamed. “Declan told he was going to send some one else, but he didn't say who! He only said he wasn't sending me 'cause I wasn't up to the job. He said something about getting a real man!”
The IRA man with the electric drill was now advancing towards him, a murderous gleam in his eyes.
“You know Declan never had much respect for me! He treated me as his lap dog but he never confided in me!”
“Last chance before the pain begins,” said Veronica.
“Please! God help me, I know nothing!”
The heavy behind him clamped a sock in his mouth and taped it over.
“You know the drill,” said Veronica, before adding “excuse the pun,” with a pang of guilt. “When you want to talk just nod your head and we'll give you a chance. But if you don't talk you get it worse the next time.”
He was frantically nodding his head already.
“It's late now,” said Veronica. “I gave you your last chance before the gag was put in place. The rule is once the gag is in place you get one dose of the pain and then you get the chance to talk again.”
His head was shaking frantically from side to side and the tears were streaming down his face in anticipation of the searing agony. The drill advanced towards his left kneecap. He tried to free his leg but it was secured firmly by the ropes. The drill made contact with his knee, cutting into the bone and sending a spasm of unbearable agony up his body to his brain.”
Even through the gag he emitted a heart-rending cry of pain. But to his interrogators, heart-rending was a concept devoid of meaning. The smaller IRA man pulled off the tape. Padraig spat out the sock and coughed as he gasped for air. He was choking on his tears of torment, knowing that the pain was beyond endurance, knowing that he may well have suffered permanent damage already, and knowing that after this he would have to go into hiding lest INLA kill him in the most painful fashion for the act of treachery he was about to commit.
“It's Declan himself!” he cried in desperation. “It's Declan himself!”
“What do you mean?” asked Veronica for clarification.
“I mean it's Declan himself. He said he was going there to do the job himself because he couldn't trust anyone to get it right.”
“I don't believe you,” said Veronica, unsure of whether to believe him or not, but determined to test him.
“It's the truth I'm telling you!” he screamed, terrified at the prospect of another rendezvous with the drill. “That's why you haven't been able to find him. He's gone there already.”
“How can you contact him?” asked Veronica.
“I can't. He made sure not to leave a trail.”
By this stage, Veronica believed him. She knew that he had hit the fear barrier as well as the pain barrier, the point beyond which interrogees can no longer hold out. She had seen it before in the other interrogations which she had witnessed or supervised. This was a man who wanted nothing more than to avoid further suffering and get out of the room with his life intact.
“OK,” said Veronica to the others. He doesn't know anything more.”
“Are you sure?” asked the bigger one.
“Positive,” said Veronica. “We'll have to track down Declan directly, using our airport contacts. If he was stupid enough to use his own name. But in any case if you've got pictures then we should be able to find him.”
“So what do we do with him?” asked the big one, shoving Padraig on the shoulder blade.
“He says he doesn't know how to contact Declan and he's probably telling truth. But Declan might contact him and he might talk. Deal with him. I need some fresh air.”
With that, Veronica McLaughlin left the room.
“Pleeeease! I swear on my mother's grave I won't tell him a blessed thing!”
The smaller IRA man was fitting a silencer to a point thirty eight, while the bigger man was refitting the gag, choking Padraig's final pathetic plea for his life. Strictly speaking only a point two can be effectively silenced, but with a two-two the danger was that the bullet would lodge in the brain without actually killing the man, leaving him a vegetable. With a forty five there was a danger of a high velocity exit, as well as a noise that might attract attention. For indoor executions, the thirty represented the ideal compromise. The smaller man picked up a cushion from the sofa and held it to Padraig's head. Then, pushing the gun right into the cushion and aiming it at Padraig's temple he squeezed the trigger and fired off a single shot.
Padraig's head recoiled and then lolled limp against his shoulder as his body drooped sideways as far as the ropes that bound him to the chair allowed.
Chapter 12
“When I first saw Murphy he was in an extremely agitated state.”
Abrams' after-lunch witness was Bernard Stern, the doctor who had treated Murphy at the hospital.
The courtroom was even more crowded now than at the start of the trial. The press coverage of the early sessions, the fact that Justine was conducting her own defence, the drama of a young woman on trial for murder, and a medical student at that, all made for the kind of living drama that drew the crowds, and the public interest was growing, in tune with the media publicity.
“Could you elaborate?” asked Abrams.
“Well when I arrived he was ranting and raving hysterically. He had a low temperature, ninety three point seven, and was shivering and trembling. His breathing was heavy although he wasn't hyperventilating. He had chest pains and watering eyes. Most significant, from a diagnostic point of view, he claimed that he'd been poisoned.”
“You could object,” whispered Parker to Justine. “It's blatant hearsay.”
At the back of his mind, Parker knew that the objection would probably be overruled. This evidence was clearly part of the res gestae, the sequence of events that forms an integral part of the crime, and was therefore an exception to the rule barring hearsay evidence.
“Drop it,” Justine replied.
“What about the symptoms which Murphy described.
“Well it's hard to say really. He didn't actually describe anything coherently. As I said, he was ranting and raving a lot.”
“Did he give you anything?”
“He gave me a bottle of tequila which he said he believed contained poison. He claimed that he had imbibed some of the contents of the bottle without realizing what it contained.”
“At this stage, Your Honour,” Abrams continued, “I would like to introduce the bottle and its preserved contents as People's Exhibit Two and ask the witness to identify it.”
“If the witness marked the bottle for identification with some non-removable, non-repeatable mark before it left his possession then I'll accept this witness's identification of the item. Otherwise I'll have to rule against it at this stage on the grounds that insufficient foundation has been laid.”
The judge already knew where things stood on this matter. But the facts had to be entered into the record. He turned to the witness.
“Dr. Stern, did you mark the bottle for identification?”
“No Your Honour.”
“In that case I'm, going to have to rule against its admission at this stage. If the People can establish chain of custody between this witness and one who did so mark it, then The Court will admit it in evidence.”
Abrams appeared unperturbed by this. The bottle had been handed to some one else and could be linked to the crime by chain of custody evidence. He'd just have to call a couple of extra witnesses from his witness list. In the meantime, he resumed his cross-examination.
“What did you do when he gave it to you?”
“I handed it to a hospital orderly called Brian Colt and told him to take it to Professor Ostrovsky in the toxicology lab and have him analyze it. I also phoned through to Professor Ostrovsky to tell that it was on the way.”
Abrams looked up at the judge, satisfied.
“Your Honour I have no further questions of this witness at this time.”
