‘Pre-meditated malice,’ I repeat under my breath. ‘Jesus Christ.’ It sounds so evil. I exhale loudly and William turns to look at me. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth swallowing the lump of objections unsaid that have propagated at the back of my throat. They threaten to cut off my air supply like some horrendous allergic reaction. You never realise how much you want to speak until you’re in a situation where you can’t, and it looks like this non-speaking situation is going to become more regular. It’s a gagging order of sorts, the type that implies that anything I say or even anything I don’t say will be used against me by the prosecutor or, if the press have their way, by the public. As far as the national sentiment goes, I’m guilty. I killed Jenny. It doesn’t matter that they haven’t proven anything yet, nor does it matter that I’ve been suspended from the job I love or that my children have to deal with the story of their mum’s death being dragged every day through the media. It doesn’t even matter that I’ve had to surrender my passport to the Gardaí. This is a process over which I have no control. I don’t have the right to act, speak or think as I want. I’ve to sit down and shut up and take what’s thrown my way. Innocent until proven guilty, my arse.
‘Picture, if you will,’ Lucinda Cassidy continues confidently as though she’s just taken centre stage at the Abbey Theatre and William throws me another cautious glance. In fairness, his description of her was spot on. There’s an air of confidence about her that wafts like an expensive perfume up the nostrils of the jury, captivating their attention and making them trust every syllable she utters. I inhale my frustration and swallow the ball of nerves that have travelled from my stomach to the back of my throat, throw one last glance to the public benches where Abbie and Josh sit and brace myself for what’s about to come. All the while, reminding myself of William’s very specific instructions in my head: sit quietly but confidently – easier said than done considering there’s a tidal wave of adrenaline washing viciously through my veins; have a remorseful but not guilty expression on your face – normally I’d get a kick out of contradictions like this and would have cracked some joke or other about how contrary his instructions were but not this time – it didn’t seem right; avoid eye contact with the jury for fear that they might think you’re over confident – I can assure you, confidence is the last thing you feel when twelve strangers are sitting staring at you, monitoring your every move and charged with the responsibility of deciding whether or not you are guilty of murdering your wife. And then, as though the list of what not to do isn’t long enough, the very last thing my barrister whispered as we took our seats and my eyes searched the gallery for Abbie and Josh was to avoid making eye contact with your children but if you must, whatever you do, don’t smile in case it’s misconstrued. Misconstrued? As what, I don’t really know. What does it mean when a dad smiles at his kids, does it mean that he killed their mother? Does it mean that if he did, that he enjoyed it… the act of seeing his wife, the mother of his children and, let’s face it, the one-time love of his life, draw her last breath? Do they really think that I’m the Estranged Husband Murderer that the headlines would have them believe?
The team have prepared me for this, outlined everything that I am to expect and they’ve put me through mock interviews trying to de-sensitise me to words and accusations that he expects Lucinda Cassidy to use. William says that this, the opening statement, is probably the most important part of the trial. Each side, starting with the prosecution, gets to pitch its version of events to the jury, unchallenged by the other side. It’s when they explain what it is they intend to prove during the course of the proceedings and, even though everybody knows that the judge will instruct the jury to ignore unsubstantiated claims, it’s a chance for the opposition to do some damage with their blinkered opinions.
It’s a farce really, a game of which barrister is more clever at nuance and suggestion than the other. They grab the chance to tell the story, my story, Jenny’s story, my family’s story, how they want it to be heard, however convoluted and far-fetched their version might be and, as far as I can make out, they – the prosecution – can say what they like.
The thing is, nobody can prove with any certainty what happened that night, not the judge with his matted wig and John Lennon glasses, not Lucinda Cassidy with her patrician pronunciation, and not the ordinary people of the jury, no matter what they’ve heard on television or radio before today.
‘Ms Jennifer Buckley or to those who loved her… Jenny,’ Lucinda glances briefly at the gallery where Abbie and Josh sit, ‘was a young, accomplished woman in the prime of her life.’ Her tone is strong, firm, the jury her captive audience and even though William had said that the first thing she would do would be to personalise Jenny, the familiarity with which Lucinda says Jenny’s name makes me want to vomit. She doesn’t know my wife, had never even met her and it’s sickening to hear her talk as though she did, as though she knew her better than I did, better than any of us. William glances at me then as though he’s read my mind, as though he expects me to stand up and shout my objections like an actor would in some American courtroom drama. I look back at him, blinking away the urge and hold my breath in an attempt to reassure him that I won’t react, that I’ll stick to the warnings he gave. I won’t, William, my eyes plead with his, I won’t, no matter what is said, how it’s said or who it’s said about, react negatively.
‘She was forty-five years old… was still married,’ she continues, inflecting the end of the word as though a question mark belongs there, pausing for effect. ‘A dedicated wife to the defendant since they married in 1996, right up until two years ago when she was diagnosed with motor neurone disease…’ She leaves a gap deliberately, letting the inference that I left Jenny because she was terminally ill burrow its way into the jury’s list of facts unchallenged like a fact-eating larvae infesting the truth and crumbling it from the inside. What type of a guy would leave their wife of twenty years because she had a terminal illness? Am I really that guy?
‘That was, until…’ Lucinda pauses, ‘he left her for another woman.’ I fight the urge to turn and look at Alex to give her the reassurance that I know she deserves. Alex Kennedy is so much more than just one affair. I want to look at her to reassure her that these are not my thoughts, not my words, but I don’t. I tried to speak to her after I was charged and released on bail but it was awful, the way she looked at me trying to figure out if the charge was true. As if she didn’t know me at all. As if she thought that I would have been capable of doing the things they said I did. She’s remained neutral ever since, texting Abbie regularly to see how she is and sending on her regards for both Josh and myself through her. I don’t turn and look at her, I remain sitting forward, my eyes fixed on the wooden panelled wall in front of me, just like William had warned me to.
‘Jennifer Buckley was a strong, determined woman… unshakeable even when faced with all these adversities, she was never one to give in, never one to give up… she was a fighter.’ Her words, delivered nearly as well as Gary Oldman’s Oscar-winning Churchill speech, make me look like the most selfish bastard alive, but that’s not the case, not in reality. There’ll be no fighting on the beaches, nor landing grounds, that’s not what this should be about. Jenny hadn’t told me that she was sick, in fact in those days, Jenny wasn’t telling me very much at all. If she had told me before I left, maybe things would be different. Maybe she wouldn’t be dead and maybe Abbie would still have her mum for whatever limited time she would have had left and Josh, well maybe one day Josh could forgive me for what’s happened.
‘Jennifer Buckley was a devoted mother to her amazing teenagers, whom she absolutely adored,’ she directs her gaze to the gallery once more. An intentionally pitiful smile plastered on her lips for the jury and everyone else to see. Abbie looks half her sixteen years, her cheeks are flushed as she sits there, her chin stuck to her chest, mouse-like in the shadow of her older brother Josh’s angry, angular frame. Thankfully, neither of them meet her gaze.
‘Jennifer Buckley knew her time was limited but she didn’t complain… she knew that she wouldn’t be around for some of the more important events in her family’s future. For instance, when her children might be in the first blush of young love and want to get married, have families themselves.’
I inhale slowly, cringing at how uncomfortable the statement will make both Abbie and Josh feel. They’re teenagers for God’s sake, not even close to being of an age to get married, can she actually do this? Can she take all of our personal stuff even the most irrelevant and manipulate it to suit her argument? I want to tell her to shut up. To sit down and mind her own bloody business, but I don’t, I wince instead. They shouldn’t have to be here, they shouldn’t have to hear this.
‘Jennifer Buckley accepted her fate in the most gracious of ways, according to those that loved her,’ she deliberately squints in my direction to invalidate any notion I might have belonging in that category. ‘She didn’t wallow in sadness at knowing her time was limited. Instead she decided to live what life she had left to its fullest. Our witnesses will tell you,’ her eyes flicker towards Sarah Barry, Jenny’s best friend. ‘That this bravery made her even more determined to achieve the things she could achieve… plan for the time that she would be here for, be there for her children for as long as she could.’ Her statement aligns every person on the jury together, all united in the commonality that parents would do anything for their children. But I’m a parent too, does my sacrifice and willingness to do anything for my children not count?
I didn’t hate Jenny when I left, in fact I still loved her, but only because of the history we had shared. She was the mother of my children and once upon a time, had been the love of my life. She had never done anything to offend me and I didn’t mean her any harm, so when I first left it gave me comfort to know that Sarah had always been by Jenny’s side.
‘Our witnesses will attest to the fact that Jennifer Buckley focused on the things she could do rather than the things she couldn’t. We’ll hear how Jennifer Buckley liked to plan,’ there’s a collective sad sigh in the gallery. A wistfulness on the part of those of us who were reminded of Jenny and her daily planners with her deteriorating handwriting sprawled across them.
She had a head like a sieve and not because of the motor neurone disease either. She said it started when she was first pregnant with Josh, she and other mothers called it baby brain, but for Jenny it never got any better. She used to joke that the baby brain grew up, sprouted hairs and an attitude and became teenager brain, which was why she wrote everything down.
‘The evidence will show you Jennifer Buckley’s diaries,’ my eyes along with everyone else’s glimpse towards the prosecutions desk. Jenny’s diaries are stacked there like stage props, deliberately angled to draw the jury’s attention. The diaries were requested months ago and according to William there are general rules against hearsay and reputational evidence that might make the diaries inadmissible, at least that’s what I think he’s hoping for.
‘Ms Jennifer Buckley’s diaries and calendars are being asserted to prove what her intentions for her life were. They’ll give a present tense impression of where she planned to be, seeing as she is not here herself to tell you,’ she throws a reproving glance in my direction. ‘Every event, appointment, commitment and plan that Jennifer Buckley intended to achieve is held within.’ She points her finger in the air resolutely. ‘Her diaries will show you, contrary to what the defence would have you believe, that without a shadow of a doubt, Jennifer Buckley’s plans did not end on the 3rd of June when her life did.’ She turns a page in the file in front of her without looking. She doesn’t need to, she knows every word inside out. She knows the position of every letter on each line. ‘Jennifer Buckley’s plans continued way past the date of her death. They included seeing her first born through the most important exam of his career to date, his Leaving Certificate exam. Sadly, that didn’t come to pass.’ She shifts on her feet so her body is facing me but her head is facing the jury. ‘The defendant, her estranged husband, Mr Liam Buckley, took that chance away.’ I alter my position and lean forward on the table uneasily and shrink a little more.
‘You will also hear from Sarah Barry,’ I bristle inwardly at the mention of her name. ‘Jennifer Buckley’s solicitor.’ She clarifies. Her reference to Sarah’s profession before her relationship with Jenny is deliberate. The extrapolation being that because she is a solicitor her judgement is far more trustworthy than if she had introduced her as Jenny’s best friend.
‘Our witnesses will also tell you,’ she throws a glance towards the bench where Sarah sits. ‘That Jennifer Buckley intended on taking a trip with her children once they had finished their state exams,’ I exhale a tad too loudly and cough to disguise it before William looks around. I was supposed to be going on that trip too. Jenny and I had talked about how it would be good for the children if we could take one last trip together. I had intended to book my flight, but I had wanted to talk to Alex about it first.
‘This trip had been planned booked and paid for,’ she drops her head sombrely. ‘Jennifer Buckley had intended to go.’ She glances at me without talking and the jury’s eyes follow hers to land on me too. ‘Jenny won’t get to take that special trip,’ she rests her words, momentarily letting the devastation seep in. ‘Because her life was taken from her,’ she shakes her head and raises her voice a tad. ‘She didn’t take her own life… Jennifer Buckley was murdered.’ You can taste the thickness of the shock as it reverberates across the room. There’s a brief hiatus while she lets the shock sink in. She shifts her position slightly as though she’s making a new point. ‘Jennifer Buckley’s doctors will tell you that she knew her limitations and that while the nature of her disease was somewhat unpredictable, there were markers in her deterioration that she knew to look for. Those markers, in Jenny’s own words, were the point at which she would, if it came to it, make a decision to end her own life.’ There’s a hushed intake of breath from the gallery. ‘The defence will try and tell you that Jenny had reached this point… that there is no other explanation but that for Jennifer Buckley, the time had come. But without a shadow of a doubt, the evidence will refute this claim.’ I still don’t look up, but I don’t need to, she has the jury in the palm of her hand, their eyes snapping from her to me and back to her again. ‘Her doctors will tell you that Jennifer Buckley wasn’t afraid of dying… she was only afraid of dying too soon and that, while she still could, she wanted to have every possible experience with her children before she became too ill.’ She glimpses at the diaries intentionally reminding the jury of everything to which she’s just referred. ‘On June 3rd, the day Jennifer Buckley’s life was taken… she still could.’ She stops to sip from the glass of water on the bench, clears her throat and waits for her subliminal catchphrase of she still could to seep into the jury’s subconscious. William throws me a look, he’s copped it too.
‘The expert pathologist will tell you how Jennifer Buckley died. He will explain what sodium pentobarbital does to a body when administered in the dosage that was found in Jennifer Buckley’s system. The evidence will show that Liam Buckley was the only other person in the house when the substance was administered. The evidence will also show you how Jennifer Buckley experienced a bout of muscle weakness in her upper limbs and a severe muscle spasm in her right hand that would have rendered her unable to have the dexterity required to draw the sodium pentobarbital from its vial and inject it into the muscle at the angle that it was done. Somebody else did this, this wasn’t part of Jennifer Buckley’s strategic plan, it was against her will.’ I steal a look at Abbie, the tears are flowing fast and furiously down her face and Josh has his arm around her. ‘Jennifer Buckley is never coming back,’ Lucinda says quietly. I want to stand up and scream at her, make her shut up. ‘She is not coming back as a mother to her two wonderful children… not as a friend… not as a wife… not even as a pilot. She was ripped away from her family abruptly and not in the dignified, strategic way that she had fought and planned for. Jennifer Buckley’s death was an act of murder… and murder is an act of violence, there’s no other way it can be viewed. Violence,’ she points her finger in the air, ‘especially when directed at our most vulnerable in society, should never go unpunished.’