I can see them all from up here on the bench. The nuns, teachers, parents, neighbors, classmates. They’ve all come to bear witness. An eerie calm hangs in the space between us, the air dazed and diffused with an illusive distance. I’m on display, isolated and confined, already an outcast. So much for the presumption of innocence.
The court registrar calls Melissa Courtney and heads turn to see the young woman approach the witness box. She’s dressed in a single-breasted gray suit, modest and mature. An everywoman. I’ve been instructed to go softer, younger, to try and dispel the media narrative of a crazed and jealous stalker. I’m in a blue shift dress and a yellow cardigan with my hair combed flat and I’m surprised my own mam recognizes me. I glance over and her grimace softens to a smile, but I see how uncomfortable she is, squeezed into a bench with Sister Keating and Sister Mullen whispering behind her. It’s a wonder she made it at all, the state of her this morning, but I’m grateful for it.
Melissa’s voice trembles as she is sworn in. The prosecution barrister stands, and I sit up and brace myself. Mr. Sullivan is a short, round figure who’d be lost under his wig and gown if it wasn’t for the resonant voice he projects across the courtroom. No syllable is left unenunciated as he delivers his proclamations.
“Miss Courtney,” says Mr. Sullivan, peering through the wire-framed glasses that sit at the end of his nose. “I understand you were at Highfield on the night of the eighth of December, 1986.”
“Yes.”
“I understand there was a Mass to celebrate the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.”
“Yes.”
“Can you talk me through what happened after the Mass, when you left the chapel?”
Melissa turns toward the jury in a move that must be rehearsed. All but one of the twelve, two women and ten men, have their eyes on her. Only the young woman with the bleached fringe and the blue satin shirt looks to me for a reaction, and I give her my deepest despair in response. She will be my focus, the one person I need to believe in me.
“We had a procession through the school in the dark with everyone carrying torches,” says Melissa. “We put this colored crepe paper over the torches so they glowed in different colors, and that’s all you could see really. I saw Lou’s light go off in front of me and then she turned off by the music room, so I followed her.”
“Why did you follow her?” asks Mr. Sullivan.
“I was worried she was going to the pool.”
“Why would she go there?”
“Shauna had training with Mr. McQueen. Lou had this idea there was something going on between them and she wanted to break them up.”
My eyes flick over to Joe, sitting behind the bar table, shaking his head. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but they are going for it. Russell scribbles a note and hands it across the table to Mr. Fagan, my barrister. He’s a restless man, fingers drumming on his thigh or running through the shock of white hair that protrudes from the back of his wig. I’m really not sure what to make of him and can only hope his agitated bluster is a tried and tested technique. He reads the note and holds a palm up to Russell, as if to say, let’s wait and see where this goes.
“Why?” asks Mr. Sullivan.
“Because she was jealous,” says Melissa.
“Of Miss Power?”
“Yes. She was obsessed with Mr. McQueen.”
“Why do you think that?”
“She used to tell me how much she fancied him, and she was always hanging around after class and going to see him in his office.”
“And was there anything going on between Miss Power and Mr. McQueen?”
“No, of course not.”
Mr. Fagan pushes his chair back from the bar table, ready to pounce, and Mr. Sullivan takes his cue to move on. He flicks over a page of his notes and takes a deep breath.
“Miss Courtney,” he says. “What happened when you went after Miss Manson?”
“I followed her out of the school to see where she was going. She said she was going home so I took her word for it and went back to the procession.”
“And what time was that?”
“Ten past six.”
“When did you next see her?”
“I left the school at seven and I saw her walking to the swimming pool. She went in the main entrance, and I waited at the back of the school till she came out again.”
“What time was that?”
“A quarter past seven. She went to the bike shed, got her bike and cycled past me on her way out.”
I want it to end there, for Melissa to grant me that mercy at least. But she sits still and poised, waiting for instruction as her barrister clears his throat.
“What did you do then?” he asks.
“I went over to the pool. The lights were off, but Mr. McQueen’s car was outside so I went in to look for Shauna. I couldn’t see her at the entrance so I called her name. When she didn’t answer, I went into the changing rooms and she was just standing there in her swimsuit, crying and shaking. When I asked her what was wrong, she said, ‘She killed him.’”
Those three words reverberate around the courtroom, and I have to grab on to the brass rail in front of me. It was Melissa. She’s the one who turned Shauna against me, who talked her out of the plan we’d agreed together. The juror in the blue shirt stares right at me, but I can’t muster the strength to react. I feel only numbing resignation.
“What did she mean by that?” asks Mr. Sullivan.
“She said that Lou had attacked Mr. McQueen and he was dead.”
“Did she say exactly what had happened?”
“She was in shock. I helped her get dressed and it was only after we left the school that she said she saw Lou push Mr. McQueen and that he fell and hit his head.”
Melissa falters, the final words sticking in her throat.
“Thank you, Miss Courtney, and please, take a moment if you need one.”
He is only delighted to let Melissa’s testimony linger as she has a drink of water and composes herself. I glance over at Joe, rubbing the back of his neck, and then Mam, head in hands. I don’t mean to stare at Sister Mullen, but I catch her eye and she looks away, refusing me any suggestion of sympathy.
“So,” says Mr. Sullivan, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat, “where did you go after you left Highfield?”
“We got a taxi to Shauna’s house.”
“Why didn’t you go straight to the Guards?”
“Shauna wanted to talk to her dad, Charles Power. He’s a solicitor.”
Mr. Sullivan nods. He knows him well, I’m sure.
“What time did you get there?”
“A bit before nine.”
“And yet you didn’t go to Dalkey Garda Station until eight forty-five the next morning. Why?”
“Mr. Power didn’t get home until after seven in the morning. He was out, working late on a case.”
She keeps a straight face, but she must know that’s a lie. I bet Charlie Power had some explaining to do.
“So as soon as you spoke to him, you went to the Guards?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Miss Courtney,” says Mr. Sullivan.
Mr. Fagan gathers his papers, arranges them on the podium and then leans his elbows on it and folds his hands together in a move as measured as I’ve seen him make.
“Did you know Miss Manson was in a relationship with Miss Power?”
“What?”
It’s out before Melissa has time to think and her shock is echoed across the room.
“Oh yes,” he says. “They were very close. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that neither of them would have had any interest in Maurice McQueen, or any man for that matter.”
Mr. Sullivan is on his feet, hands and gown swinging.
“My Lord, this is ludicrous and utterly irrelevant. I apply to have it ruled inadmissible.”
Judge Campion is a man of measured calm, and he takes his time to consider this.
“Please, My Lord,” says Mr. Fagan. “I’m trying to establish that Miss Manson was not jealous of Miss Power, nor was she obsessed with Mr. McQueen. I’d like to show the jury two photographs that support this.”
The judge beckons both barristers to the bench and examines the pictures, Shauna posing in her bra, the two of us kissing.
“I’ll allow it,” he says. “Please continue, Mr. Fagan.”
Despite the exhaustion, the grinding sense of doom, I can’t help feeling a flourish of victory as Mr. Fagan lays down the two Polaroids in front of Melissa. She shakes her head at the first and puts her hand to her mouth when she sees the second. She looks straight at me with a sadness I didn’t expect, and I wonder if she’s having second thoughts.
“Miss Courtney, do you recognize the two young women kissing in the photo?” asks Mr. Fagan.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me who they are?”
“Shauna and Lou,” she says, and the whole room inhales at once.
I’ve never tried to label my feelings for Shauna, I never dared think beyond the heat of the moment. I didn’t want to allow outside voices in because I knew what they’d say. I hear it now in the gasps and mutterings and I want to shout, no, it wasn’t like that.
I look over at Joe, unfazed and stoic, though it can’t be easy for him. He’s taken it all quite reasonably, as if it comes with the territory, and I hope he’s not saving his resentment for later. Mam, on the other hand, has not been forewarned and the news is like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. Wide-eyed and alert, she has shed her aura of self-pity and I almost dare to hope she finally gets it.
As the photos are passed around the jury, I pray that some of them can see beyond the inevitable scandal to the human side of it. It’s a huge risk and I know the press will gorge themselves on it, but it may just provide enough reasonable doubt to my motivation and put a question mark over Shauna’s too. I know it could go either way, amplify the monstrous caricature that’s already out there, but it’s all I’ve got and I have to hope at least one of the jury can understand.
“Miss Courtney, I want you to take us back to Highfield on the night of the eighth of December. You say that you were following the procession around the school when you saw one of the torch lights in front of you go off. You noticed it belonged to Miss Manson, who then slipped away down a corridor.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“If you were behind Miss Manson in the procession, how could you have known it was her torch?”
“I … I don’t know. I just did.”
“Was it because you were watching Miss Manson, following her?”
“I could see her ahead of me.”
“Did she already tell you of her plan to go to the swimming pool to check on Shauna?”
“She might have said something.”
I almost feel sorry for Melissa, the flush in her cheeks as she scrambles to save herself.
“By ‘something,’ do you mean the numerous times Miss Manson told you that Miss Power was being sexually abused by Mr. McQueen? Was that why you were both so interested in going to the pool that night? Because you wanted to stop your friend from being raped by her teacher?”
Mr. Sullivan is up, scuttling to his podium amid a flurry of cries and gasps across the room.
“My Lord,” he says, “I apply to have this evidence ruled inadmissible. It’s hearsay and it’s also completely irrelevant.”
Judge Campion holds up his hand and leans forward to talk to the court registrar before making an announcement.
“I’m going to ask the jury to leave the courtroom, and then I will hear submissions from both sides.”
As the members of the jury file out, I look over at Russell, and he shrugs. Across the table, Mr. Fagan flicks through a ring binder as though his life depends on it.
“My Lord,” begins Mr. Sullivan. “This is nothing more than an attempt to smear the deceased, an honorable man who is not here to defend his good name. But more pertinently, his sexual proclivity is simply not relevant to the matter before this court.”
“Mr. Fagan?” says the judge.
“My Lord, I put it to you that it is indeed relevant, in fact it is the single most relevant consideration in determining what happened at Highfield that night. Miss Manson has given a statement to the fact that not only was she abused by Maurice McQueen, but that she witnessed Miss Power being raped by him in the storeroom at the pool that night.”
“My Lord,” says Mr. Sullivan, “Miss Power vehemently denies that any such incident ever took place.”
“We have two witnesses,” says Mr. Fagan, “Julie Gillespie and Paula Fletcher, who will testify to being sexually abused by Maurice McQueen in that very storeroom over a number of years.”
Unease ripples through the spectators as excitement turns to discomfort. Murder they could handle, but rape allegations against such a powerful man is not something anyone wants to face.
The judge takes his time, makes some notes while Mr. Fagan crosses and uncrosses his arms, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Each anxious movement hits like a punch to the gut until I can’t look anymore. I close my eyes and pray.
“Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Fagan,” says Judge Campion, and nobody moves a muscle. “I agree with Mr. Sullivan. I am ruling this inadmissible. Mr. Fagan, you may not present any further evidence that relates to this matter.”
Mr. Fagan throws his head back and shuts his eyes, and I know I’m done for. All our work, all our hopes have relied on this inconvenient truth. Without it, it’s just me against Highfield, and I already know how that one goes.