The
clock flashed 3 am. I wrestled a losing battle with sleep, finally relenting at 5 am to
make coffee. Four hours later the adrenaline surged through me at the same speed as the train to Dublin. When the detective served me with the papers to
go to court, I had decided not to read my
statement until just before the trial. I gave a statement to a detective two years earlier. I reread the same line in
my statement for a fourth time. I saw him stab her three times.
I remember walking past the shop in the Market Cross shopping centre where she
worked. I looked into the shop where she worked as I walked passed it. She was
alone and closing up as it was late, and all the other shops had closed. I remember hearing her screams about
five seconds later. I turned around a scruffily
dressed man in black with unkempt hair was pulling her on the ground. Clear memories of her screams which intensified
when she saw as he pulled her outside the shop. Memories of shock and horror on
her face as she raised her bloody hand, the screams got louder. I described the murder weapon. Any memories I
had of those fatal 30 seconds of her life
could not be resurrected, there was no memory of the stabbing, but I had clearly described it the following day.
Thoughts
rushed through my mind of his plea that I
heard on the radio, ‘Not Guilty on grounds of reasonable insanity.’ Did that
mean he would be out after five or six
years? Was I the only witness? Maybe someone
else can read my statement for me in court. What
if he gets off on a suspended sentence, and he comes after me, or my family?
The
train stopped for commuters, the seats filled as we neared Dublin. I hoped
someone didn’t sit beside me as I was in no mood for conversation. I thought of her picture in the paper. He flaming red
hair and her beautiful smile. A young
woman in her prime. I thought, why? It could have been my daughter murdered by a crazed man. People said
he screamed, “You took my blood,” as he stabbed her.
The
train arrived at Heuston at 10 am sharp. I walked with
the commuters along the platform towards the exit, stopping at Butlers Coffee kiosk.
I needed a large, strong coffee.
The case wasn’t due to start until 11. On the short walk to the Criminal Courts, I
wondered would her family be there? Young men wearing jumpers and tracksuits bottoms ran past me going in the
same direction. Smoking, talking on mobile phones, some I suspect were sobering up from the previous night's feast of alcohol and drugs. I stopped at the bottom steps outside the large glass building. The Criminal Courts,
which I saw many times on the news. Outside the doors more groups of men smoked,
a few wore more suitable attire for their day in court. I guessed many were court
veterans. This was a routine activity to
break the monotony of unemployment. I joined
the queue of people going inside and put
my bag on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine. No liquids. No sharp objects. Take off your belts. I felt like
handing the security guard my passport, but I wasn’t going on holiday.
The
large reception area was a hive of activity. Garda,
men and women in black capes conversed as they looked at files, anxious groups looking for their relevant room.
People looked at the computer on the wall
to see which courtroom they had to go to.
Shane
Smyth - FL 4 - Court 13.
I
felt sick even though I hadn’t eaten since the day before. This was when the situation
became starkly real. I took a deep breath taking the elevator to the fourth floor. A
Garda sat at
a mobile x-ray
machine outside the courtroom beside number
13 to search people as they entered.
A
few people sat outside courtroom 13. More people arrived. Nobody talked to each other. A group of Garda stood around the railing reading their
statements, I assumed they assisted the search for him, or maybe they helped
the girl in her dying moments. The detectives arrived with boxes. One briefed a few of us.
.
We entered a windowless room. The eight rows of seats quickly filled. The witnesses were assigned a group of seats
to the right of the room; still nobody spoke to each other. Everybody rose when the judge entered, she
took her place high up at the front overlooking
the room. She introduced the jury and opening statements were read. The Public Prosecutor dressed in a black cape wore a white wig introduced himself. It was like court
scenes I had seen on television. The difference
was, I was here. I felt the air become tense.
Everybody looked to the left. Nobody spoke they just looked at the man as he
sat behind perspex glass. The accused. He
was clean in his crisp white shirt with his hair tied back in a pony tail and had put on weight. Also, he had grown a bushy beard.
The
prosecutor began to speak. He said, ‘The
plea means the accused is not guilty of
murder, but he is insane and will be placed in the Central Mental Hospital for life. That is if the jury agrees
that he is not guilty.’ He told us several
people will speak during the case, two psychiatrists, a doctor and several
Garda. Witnesses first. I knew I would
not be cross-examined because of the plea,
all I
had to say what was in my statement.
The
accused sat looking straight ahead
rocking back and forth.
The
first witness was called to the witness box. The Market Cross Shopping Centre security guard. He had thrown
the accused out of the centre earlier that evening. The prosecutor read his
statement and asked him a few questions.
Someone
called my name. I hoped my legs would keep
steady, my heart rate increased. I
walked past the accused in his box as I caught his eye. He stared threateningly at me, but I knew I was safe. In
the witness box took the oath.
The
prosecutor introduced me. He read my statement stopping every few sentences asking me, ‘Did I agree?’
I
said, I agreed with what he said.
The
judge leaned forward asked me, ‘Would you mind speaking a little louder?’
A
jug of water was in front of me. My mouth was parched, my lips chapped, but I
didn’t want to stop for a drink to interrupt the flow of questions. Even though
they weren’t really questions, just someone reading my statement. I quivered
when he read the description of the stabbing.
He
read my description of the knife. A foot long wooden handled knife. I couldn’t
picture it, but I remembered describing it to the detective who came to my
house the day after the murder.
I
heard someone say, ‘Have we the knife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would
you show it to the witness?’
A
man came towards me carrying something wrapped in plastic. He stopped in front
of me. A wooden knife with a wooden handle. He pushed it towards me.
The
prosecutor said, ‘Is this the knife?’
I
stared at the knife, I didn’t speak again
he asked me, ‘Is this the knife?.
I
said, ‘Yes.’
I
was free to go.
.
