Stone built, with classic proportions, Ionic columns, and black cast-iron gates and railings to the front, the place looked innocent enough, if you didn’t know better. But Green Street Courthouse was a fortress, set squat on a narrow street, easily controllable at both ends. There were two small front doors, but only one was open to the public, and that could be closed fast at the first hint of trouble. The side yard was surrounded by walls too high to climb and topped with metal spikes in case anyone was foolish enough to try.
Inside, the bitter tang of disappointment tainted the air. If you were in the dock here, you were probably going down. In the old days, that meant hanging, transportation to Van Diemen’s Land, or maximum security in Portlaoise Prison. More recently, since the Special Criminal Court had moved to Parkgate Street, the place had gone soft. Drug Court was held here now, where judges and probation officers worked with long-term addicts who wanted to get clean, stay out of jail, and live a better life.
But Drug Court had finished for the day. It was after five, and it was night. I gazed through the Georgian windows at the black of the sky. There is a very particular atmosphere in a courtroom after dark. During regular daylight hours, anyone might ramble in for a look: tourists, schoolkids, nosy pensioners, underemployed lawyers, time-killers of various kinds. When it’s late, it’s different. All the people in the courtroom have a stake in the proceedings. At a special sitting, a case that can’t wait till morning, everyone knows that something important and extraordinary is about to happen. I could taste it, that peculiar combination of anticipation and privilege. We would know the story before anyone else, see it, and hear it. Along with a small number of favoured reporters and court staff, legal teams and guards shuffled papers, exchanged looks, or talked quietly in the body of the court, but the scene wasn’t as Gill would have directed it. There had been no waiting supporters, no cheers, no rounds of applause. I had watched the Garda van as it drove into the side yard. Television cameras had filmed its arrival, but there would be no shot of Gill walking in, and no photography was permitted in the building. There wasn’t even a court artist, though there would be one at the trial. For now, Gill had lost control of his image. He would enter the court the same as any ordinary accused person. I sat alone on a bench, in a high corner of the public gallery, and waited.
At about ten past five, the door at the far side of the court opened and a female Garda in uniform walked through, followed by Esther Gill, and Sadie O’Riordan. A hush fell over the room. Whoever had chosen Esther’s court clothes had done her no favours. She must have asked for a suit, but she couldn’t have meant this one, a baby-blue spring wedding coat and dress with a thin flower print chiffon scarf that did nothing to protect her from the biting cold. Despite the make-up, her skin was almost the same colour as her outfit, but she had two faint spots of pink blusher on her cheeks, like an antique china doll. Her hair, normally big and over-styled, was so flat and thin that I could see her skull. The crowd parted before her. The first Garda helped her up the steps to the dock, and sat behind her. Sadie stood on the floor below, in silence.
A few minutes later, Gill climbed the stairs from the cells and emerged in the dock. He was wearing a dark grey business suit, with a mid-blue shirt and a navy and red striped tie. Were it not for his trademark long hair, he would have been indistinguishable from the male lawyers present. He took his place beside his mother. I had a side view of his face. His jaw stiff, he stared straight ahead at the vacant judge’s chair. His mother whispered to him, he nodded, and resumed staring at the same spot. His solicitor left his seat at the front of the courtroom below the judge’s desk, walked down to the dock, and muttered something to Gill. He bent to listen, but didn’t reply. It was unnerving, the silence, the fixed gaze, so different from his garrulous public persona. Proceedings hadn’t started but, when they could bear to drag their eyes away from him, the journalists were already scratching at their notebooks.
Finally, as Gill had, Donnie entered the dock from below. He was dressed, as he had been at the station, in sun holiday clothes. He shivered in his seat, holding his baseball cap in his hand, and stared at the floor. Gill and Esther ignored him entirely.
At twenty past five, the judge took his seat, and the hearing began. Evidence of arrest, charge and caution was given by the guards who had been tasked with formally arresting Gill, Esther and Donnie. Lenihan stood at the side watching for any errors or forgotten details, ready to prompt the prosecutor if needed. But there was little to be done. There would be no bail hearing, as bail in a murder case can only be granted by the High Court, though the various defence solicitors confirmed that applications would be filed as soon as possible. The judge nodded, took a note for the court file and remanded Jeremy Gill and Donnie Bryant in custody to Cloverhill Prison. Sure to be considered a flight risk, they would have a hard time getting out again before the trial. Esther was remanded to the Women’s Prison at Mountjoy. She’d get a comfortable berth in the Dochas Centre, given her age.
‘Any further applications?’
Gill stood and opened his mouth. The judge spoke first.
‘Mr Gill, I think that’s what your solicitor is for.’
Gill’s solicitor shook his head, but his client started to speak. I wondered if this was what the lawyer had said before court, that Gill should stay quiet and refrain from speech-making. If that’s what it was, he was ignoring the advice.
‘I’ll be very, very brief, judge. Thank you for the time. I want the people of Ireland to know that I love them and I love this great country still, even after what has happened today. The establishment has never liked me, and they’ve tried to bring me down before. They didn’t succeed then, and they won’t succeed now. I put my faith in the constitution and in the jury of my fellow Irishmen and women that I will be happy to have stand in judgment over me, and I want every one of them to know now that I am completely innocent of this abominable charge, this travesty of justice, as is my mother. I am the victim here, and I will fight this horrible calumny, this stain on my character until my dying breath and I …’
‘Mr Gill, you would be far better advised to save that kind of talk for your consultations with your solicitor and your counsel. I’ll rise now.’
When the judge had left the room, Gill looked in the direction of the press benches, half raised his left arm and fist in a gesture of defiance, then turned his back on them and the courtroom. The show had finished, and the journalists knew it. As one, they leapt to their feet and started to make their way outside.
Donnie went back down to the cells immediately and I saw Esther mouth the words ‘good job, son’ to Gill and he bent to kiss her before she was taken away. But after she had left, as the courtroom emptied, he seemed to turn in on himself for a moment. He held on to the railing, his skin dull with fatigue. I remembered how he had been on that morning in my kitchen, and how frightened of him I had been then.
No longer. I saw him now for what he was, and I saw what he would become. It was over for him – his power, his riches, his great success, all of it. He would never admit his guilt, and it didn’t matter. He would fully contest the case against him, and he would fail.
The attending Garda touched Gill’s elbow, but he made no move towards the stairs. I stood to go, and he must have heard something because he glanced up at the public gallery, empty except for me. He hadn’t known I was there, I think, and when he saw me his eyes widened, very slightly.
Almost instantly, he straightened and his face became a mask again, hard and unyielding. He turned towards me, his back to the guard and the people in the well of the court below, and the rest of the world fell away. Gill brought his left hand to his throat and drew his index finger right to left across the base of his neck. He smiled at me then, and kept smiling as the custody guard put his hand on his shoulder and guided him down to the cells.
I stood my ground and kept watch until Jeremy Gill had vanished, as completely as if he had descended into hell.