Up The Pillar (And Down By The Four Courts)

By James Conolly

Jimmie gets arrested and stitched up by the Gardai; not once, but twice within a 14 month period. He gains a criminal conviction based on false evidence and, as a consequence, gets sacked.
How do you disprove a lie? Meet Jimmie and his pal Leo as he goes up the Pillar and down by the Four Courts, traversing Dublin in a Joycean odyssey and trawling the justice system in an attempt to overturn his criminal criminal conviction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326771560

Book preview

Up The Pillar (And Down By The Four Courts)

UP THE PILLAR;(AND DOWN BY THE FOURCOURTS)

PARTS 1 & 2.

Subtitled

THE BOOK OF CODOLOGY/JIMMIE IN JUSTICELAND

Further Subtitled

JIMMIE JOYCE; A NEW MAN.

BY MISTERS JIMMIE O’BRIEN & LEO BYRNE

WRITTEN BY

JAMES CONOLLY

Copyright Notice

First published by Lulu in 2016

www.lulu.com

Copyright © James Conolly 2016

All rights reserved

James Conolly asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

IBSN 978-1-326-77156-0

This book is dedicated to;

Those persons who have died in Garda custody,

and

Those persons who were the victims of a miscarriage of justice, or who were stitched up in one way or another.

The author would like to thank the High Court Judge, Mr. Justice Gerard Hogan, who judged that section 18 of the 1935 Criminal Law (Amendment) Act was not in fact a Law. Thus making the Author a man convicted of a Criminal Offence, that did not in Law, exist.

The Author would also like to thank the Gardai who made, in relation to the 2 incidents related herein; 13 Statements of Evidence against him, all of which did not reflect truly events as they did occur, and the 3 Gardai who in Court presented evidence under oath which was mostly untrue in its content; thus inspiring this book. Which although written as a work of faction contains mostly the true facts of events as they unfolded.

UP THE PILLAR; PART 1.

1; A CHANGE OF NAME

2; AT THE JAMES JOYCE APPRECIATION SOCIETY

3; THE FUSSY INCIDENT

4; LORD NELSON

5; COURT 4 CCJ, THE SUMMONS ARE RECEIVED

6; THE FOCUS POINT

6A; THE CARSTOPS BEGIN

7; THE SENATOR’S BOOK LAUNCH

8; A JUDICIAL REVIEW

9; RAIN IN THE GREEN

10; ENJOY YOUR BUS STOP

11; FOLLICULORUM

12; THE SUPREME COURT

13; UPON THE QUAYS

UP THE PILLAR; PART 2.

14; DOWN BY ISLANDBRIDGE

15; THE DFB MBC INCIDENT

16; THE PICNIC IN THE PARK

17; IN TRANSIT; THE STATION, THE CELL, RELEASE

18; THE WELLINGTON MONUMENT

19; THE FUSILIERS ARCH

20; THE HOSPITAL OF THE SACRED HEART

21; JIMMIE GOES ON VACATION

22; THE AFTERMATH, THE BRIDEWELL

23; A DUBLIN CITY RAMBLE

24; BACK TO COURT AGAIN

25; THE POOLBEG CHIMNEYS

26; A COMPLAINT IS MADE

27; AFTER POOLBEG

28; NOT A CHICKEN NUGGET

29; THE WORLD OF REALITY

30; THE LITTLE HUMPY OLD PRISON OFFICER

31; A GOOD MOAN, IS YER ONLY MAN

32: THE DAY OF PERJURY

33; SAINT PATRICKS CATHEDRAL

34; THE FIRST APPEAL

35; FROM MOUNT ARGUS TO MOUNT JEROME

36; THE APPEAL

37; THE APPEAL CONTINUES

38; JIMMIE LIGHTS A CANDLE

39; IN THE HIGH COURT

40; ICH BIN EIN DUBLINER

41; A JUDICIAL REVIEW IN THE HIGH COURT

42; THE APPEAL IS ALLOWED: WHAT APPEAL

43; THE TOWER IN THE GREEN

44; THE GUINNESS TOWER

UP THE PILLAR;PART 1. CHAPTER 1. A CHANGE OF NAME.

Dublin is a city in Ireland; it is situated on the river Liffey.  Jimmie and Leo are citizens of that Great City. Dublin is their city of Dreams. This is their story, or at least one day in the life.  The story opens in the Four Courts, which is situated beside the Liffey, on Inns Quay. Today is Doomsday, the 15th day of August 2014. It is the feast of the Assumption, of the Most Holy Blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of God, into Her Heaven. It is also the day that Jimmie will tell his story to Leo, and perhaps climb to the top of Nelsons Pillar. Nelsons Pillar stood in O’Connell Street for over 150 years until it was blown up one day in March 1966. This is a story of the impossible, the improbable, and the downright ludicrous. This is the day that Jimmie declares himself to be a man without conviction, well at least without a criminal conviction.

…………………………………………………………..

‘Mr Joyce.  Mr Joyce,’ she called after him.

‘Mr Joyce.  You have forgotten your certificate.’

The newly anointed Mr Joyce turned around and went back to the counter.

‘Sorry,’ he said, as she handed him his deed poll certificate of change of name.   ‘I didn’t realise for a moment that you were calling me.’

‘That’s all right Mr Joyce,’ she said.  ‘I suppose it will take a while to get used to a new name. Best of luck with it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mister Joyce, as he turned away from the counter and headed towards the exit.

‘Mister James Joyce.  James Augustine Aloysius Joyce. Jimmie Joyce,’ he repeated to himself as he exited The Four Courts on Dublins’ Liffeyside. Or, as James Joyce, the famous writer might put it, beside Plurabelle Anna Livia.

The now Mr James Joyce strolled down the City Quays towards the innards of the city, swinging his walking cane.

He was now officially Mr James Augustine Aloysius Joyce, having just legally declared himself so, by making the necessary sworn declaration on affidavit in the High Court of Ireland. Yes, the High Court, the Low Court, the Four Courts, the Five Courts, any number of courts. The courts of Law.  The courts of this, the courts of that. The courts my arse, my kingdom for an effing court, For Jimmie had indeed, his bellyful of Courts, as we will later learn.

For now was he no longer plain old Jim O’Brien. No. No, indeed.  Now he would throw off the shackles of invisibility and anonymity, and henceforth and for ever more, be known as James Joyce. James Joyce, writer of essays of noble intent, writer of novels of intractable and convoluted codology. Writer of all things good and honourable.  Writer of truth, and seeker of justice.  Writer in residence of the city of Dublin, and writer of its citizens and its inhabitants. Writer of all that goes on, in this city of dreams.

‘I shall now go forth and meet my great friend Senator David Norris, at whose residence I shall sip fine wines and eat offal of beasts, now deceased,’ he declared to himself.

‘And then,’ he further mused, ‘I shall write a great novel, the likes of which no great city has seen before, and is unlikely to ever see again. This great novel shall extol the virtues, and more importantly, the vices, of this great and modern city.

‘For vices maketh a city, and indeed, maketh it great. Maketh it modern, maketh it wonderful.  Vices define a city. Vices create a city. For a city without vice, is a city without sin. And a city without sin, is a city without a soul. For vice shall be declared the new virtue. And the great all-seeing and all-knowing God of this universe, shall shine his blessings down upon this great City of misery and torment. This great city of Dublin shall shine like a beacon in the dark of the night. It shall shine like a lighthouse to the weary and tormented traveller of this God forsaken universe. All shall be welcome to this city of dreams, this city of nightmares. This city that we love, this city that we hate, this city of nightmares, this city of dreams.’

‘God save Dublin from the catholic church. God save Dublin from mediocrity. God save Dublin from heaven. God save Dublin from hell. God deliver Dublin from its upright citizens. God, give us back our vices. Give us Sodom, give us Gomorrah. God give us Guinness stout, and Jameson whiskey, to both, quench our thirst and to banish our misery. God give us the beloved Molly Bloom, god give us the Monto, and save us from that Cardinal sin, John Charles McQuaid. God Save us from the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church.’

‘Deliver us too, dear lord, from those Politicians, those Bankers, and from all the petty officials that creep and crawl out of every corner and from under every flagstone of this great and wondrous godforsaken city of sin and misery.’

The now James Augustine Aloysius Joyce came out of his trance and found himself standing on the corner of O’Connell Street, and O’Connell Bridge, with a large crowd of people gathered around, listening to his impromptu public address. The crowd there assembled, applauded James Joyce when he had finished speaking.

‘Hear, hear,’ said one.

‘Hear, hear,’ said all, and the assembled throng applauded.

He stood there embarrassed. Not realising that he had been actually speaking in public. But rather he thought that he had been but musing to himself.

He doffed his cap to one and all, and quickly bid them a good day. He made haste for his bus home. For he now faced a great task. He must head home and try to convince his long suffering wife to now change her name to Nora Barnacle.

He hopped on the bus in D’Olier Street, and headed homewards. For there he would face a great challenge, to explain to the missus, why he had changed his name.

On the bus trip, he looked out the window and he mused to himself, ‘Should the current Mrs O’Brien change her name to Nora Barnacle or perhaps to Molly Bloom.’

‘Yes, Molly Bloom, yes, that is it, Molly Bloom,’ he said to himself.  ‘She must become Molly Bloom. And, when I ask her, will she change her name to Molly Bloom? She will say, yes. Yes, for you I will. Yes, yes. I will become Molly Bloom. For you, I will.  She will say. Yes. Yes. Yes.’

CHAPTER 2; AT THE JAMES JOYCE APPRECIATION SOCIETY.

Later that week, Jimmie attended the annual meeting of The James Joyce Appreciation Society, which met every year on the 15th day of June, the eve of Bloomsday.

James Joyce is that long deceased writer, of arguably some of the most indescribable codology ever written.

Very few people have read his works, as reading his work is regarded as a punishment of almost grotesque proportions, and anyone who can boast of having read one of his books, is awarded a medal of suffering for so doing. And enters into that famous clique of, - I have read James Joyces’ Ulysses - which is  something akin to being in the GPO during the Easter rising of 1916, a lot more people have claimed to have read it  than have read it.

And why so?  Simple. It is many pages of insufferable, long winded, indecipherable and insufferable codology.

Even that greatest of Joycean scholars, Senator David Norris, has been lost on page something hundred and something or other, of Ulysses, for God knows how long, He has failed to get to the end of the book, despite having spent the last 50 years of his life trying to do so. Norris, in his Bloomsday speech, is quoted as having said;

‘James Joyce was an old windbag and charlatan, and his book, Ulysses, is possibly the greatest piece of codology ever written in the English language, or any other language for that matter.’

He further ranted.  ‘Bloomsday should be celebrated on the first day of April, as James Joyce did fool so many people into turning his silly writing into matters of almost Biblical proportions and importance.’

‘His writings I tell you, are insufferable, insufferable, insufferable. And I, for one, almost had a complete and utter nervous breakdown, trying to get to the end of Ulysses. Reading it is horrendous torture.  In fact, that book Ulysses should be banned, not for its small matters of indecency, but because it is an implement of torture. And as the medieval rack, flogging, and keel hauling, and other such methods of torture are banned in these modern so called more enlightened times,  I am now proposing that James Joyce’s book, Ulysses, should henceforth, be banned , not under some indecency legislation, but under the United Nations Convention against Torture and other cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatments or Punishments.’

After his oration, Senator Norris, mingled with the members of the James Joyce Appreciation Society, and enjoyed tea, along with cucumber and chicken gizzard sandwiches. He had, under his arm, a copy of the E L James book, Fifty Shades of Grey, and when Jimmie spoke to him, he told him, and I quote;

‘James Joyce is old hat. I am now studying the writings of Miss E L James. I am currently researching the matter of the Fifty Shades trilogy, and am busy with writing a thesis on the subject. Christian Grey is such a wonderful character, beats that silly old Leopold Bloom into second place any-day, well, certainly in my estimations, and God forbid, I have been studying Leopold Bloom for the last 50 years. ‘

He also confided to Jimmie. ‘What a waste of a lifetime. My only regret is that Miss E L James didn’t write her trilogy 50 years earlier. That is my one regret.’

‘Yes, Senator Norris, there are many who would agree with you.’

Jimmie, for he liked to be called Jimmie, noticed a strange looking fella looking at him. He looked back at the strange looking fella. Two strange looking fellas looking at each other, perhaps as though they were looking in a mirror.  ‘Where have I seen that fella before, I’m sure that I know him,’  Jimmie thought to himself. This other fellow, who was dressed in a beige waistcoat and brown jacket, approached Jimmie.

‘Didn’t I used to know you at school?’ he said.

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Jimmie, as his little mind recalled history,’ aren’t you Leo Byrne? I remember you now. Clongowes Wood College, class of 66 or something like that.’

They did not in fact go to the prestigious Clongowes Wood College, which is a posh school for children of well-off parents, it was more the local primary school and secondary school, but they had a pretentious joke that it was Clongowes Wood College.  What they went to, was more akin to the local hedge school.

‘Clongowes, me arse,’ says Leo. ‘And you’re Jim O’Brien? Sure we used to sit side by side in the old fashioned wooden desks, do you remember it Jem?’

‘The name is Jimmie, if you don’t mind, Jimmie Joyce, sometimes bit part writer and aspiring author of a great book of codology, in the vein of James Joyce and his great book Ulysses.’

‘Jimmie Joyce? you’re pulling my leg? I don’t believe it.’

‘Ha ha, ha,’ goes Leo, ‘Ha ha, holy effing Ha.’

’What’s so funny about Jimmie Joyce?’ says Jimmie. ‘Sure it’s as noble a name as you will get anywhere. A good solid Irish name.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ continues Leo.’ Yes, it’s a fine name. It’s just that I got bored with my old name too, wanted a change. You see I was going to start a new life, maybe emigrate to the sun, or write a great novel. So I changed my name too.’

‘Really’ says Jimmie, ‘don’t tell me you’re James Joyce too?’

‘Well, not quite, not Jimmie Joyce, I changed my name to Leopold Bloom. I was going to become a great writer or at least a great character of sorts, you know, man about town, great raconteur. Just like one of those great Irish writers, Brendan Behan, or F Scott Fitzgerald.’

‘F Scott Fitzgerald. I don’t think he was Irish?’

‘Same difference, sure who cares anyway, hasn’t he got a good Irish name? And he was probably a great raconteur.’

‘Say, let’s get out of here, I’m fed up with these James Joyce fanatics, full of pretentious shit, and their godlike devotion to Ulysses,’ says Jimmie.

‘Good idea. There is a nice little private bar not far from here, we can have a chat there. Catch up on old times.’

‘Say, it must be twenty years since I seen you last, how have you been, Mr Bloom. Old boy?’

‘Well Mr Joyce. It’s like this…..’

They thanked their host, the Right Honourable Senator David Norris, and exited the Joyce Halls of Academia and out into the evening sunshine of Dublin city. Down the incline of North Great Georges Street, past the Chinese restaurants, and onwards, ever onwards in the city of dreams.

CHAPTER 3; THE FUSSY INCIDENT.

Jimmie and Leo repaired to the Lord Gresham Gentlemens’ Club, on or near O’Connell Street, to have a small libation, and more importantly to discuss matters. They found a comfortable seat, and sat down with their Pints of Porter.

‘So,’ says Leo, ‘tell us about this great book of codology that you are planning.’

‘Well’ Jimmie explained, ‘It’s like this, I was thinking of writing of my recent experience which involve the system of justice in this country. It is all rather farcical, hence my change of name, and my desire to write a book of convoluted codology, in the line of a James Joyce novel.’

‘So do you want to tell me something about it?’

…………………………………………………………..

‘Well Leo,’ says Jimmie, sipping on his pint of porter, ‘Do you want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God?’

‘That’s up to you,’ says Leo, ‘But I thought it was going to be a book of codology?’

‘Well,’ says Jimmie, ‘you know that they do say that truth is indeed often stranger than fiction?’

‘And, often more interesting, or so they say.’

‘Well,’ says Jimmie, ‘It  all started  one sunny day in February, just after 3 o’clock in the afternoon, when there I was sitting  in my security hut, on the FUSSY site in Ballygodee, in Dublin, where I was working as a security officer. Outside I heard a commotion.’ 

‘A commotion?’ says Leo. Looking at Jimmie.

‘Yes, a commotion Leo, a Commotion, so I looked at the cctv monitor in the hut, but could see nothing. I tried to turn the cameras around using the joystick, but to no avail. The system was not working, and the cameras would not respond to the instructions of the console. So I looked out the door. There was a commotion coming from across the road. I went over to the railings, which divided the site from the footpath on Churchleap Hill Road. Across the road was a man lying on his back on the ground. On top of him was another man who was hitting him with his fist. He was left handed, and he had his knee on his chest or neck.’

‘I can’t breathe. I heard the man lying on his back on the ground called out in apparent distress.’

‘I can’t breathe?’ says Leo.

‘Yes Leo, that’s what he said, I can’t breathe, Oh dear, I thought to myself. This looks serious,’ continues Jimmie. ‘Also across the road, at the entrance to an old disused warehouse, was a small red car with its drivers’ door left open, parked askew the entrance. There was a male sitting in the passenger seat, with another man standing nearby, apparently watching him.’

‘The man on top of the man on the ground produced a telescopic baton.   He proceeded to whack the fella on the ground with it.  I thought to myself, - ‘they look like plainclothes cops’.  I was mindful of the fact that there were over 25 deaths in Garda custody in the last decade. That is an average of 2.5 per year. When the man lying on the ground cried out, ‘I can’t breathe,’ I became concerned for his welfare, so I took out my camera phone, to take a few photos, and record the events.  I then dialled 999 on my mobile phone and requested an ambulance for the man on the ground, who I assumed may need some medical attention after Mr Telescopic Baton had finished with him. I then went back over to the railings, to observe the events as they unfolded.

‘25 deaths in Garda custody,’ says Leo, ‘where did you get that figure?’

‘Leo,’ says Jimmie, ‘I have been studying these things recently, if you don’t believe me, sure you can ring the Garda Commissioner himself. I am sure he will give you the figures, or maybe not.’

Leo took a sip from his pint of plain.

Jimmie continued, ‘I then went outside of the railings onto the footpath, and proceeded to record the incident on my mobile phone, as the struggle on the ground continued.’

‘An unmarked car pulled up. Out leapt 3 uniformed Gardai.  Out of the back seat appeared the Garda whom I would come to know as AK47.’

‘AK47,’ queries Leo.

‘Correct Leo. This AK47 was a small man, with jet black hair, immaculately trimmed.  I called him AK47, because that was the shoulder numbers that he was wearing that day.  AK47 was in Garda uniform, with a stab vest on.’

‘AK47 lunged at me, as I was recording events across the road at the warehouse entrance, took my camera phone from me, and pushed me back towards the railings. He then turned away from me.’

‘Please may I have my phone back, says I to AK47.’

‘I got no reply,’ says Jimmie. ‘Please may I have my phone back, I again asked courteously. Mindful that this AK47, was apparently a member of An Garda Siochana.   AK47 ignored me.’

‘The 2 other Gardai that got out of the car were also milling around close by. There were plenty of other cops across the road also, as plenty of backup had, as this stage, arrived.’

‘AK47, what is your name?  I asked, as this AK47 was ignoring me, and would not give me my phone back. ‘

‘AK47, what is your name? I asked one more time.’

‘I still got no reply.’

Jimmie continues, ‘I  then took out my other phone that I had in my pocket and  held up  my phone in the direction of  AK47, in order to make a photo record of this man who had taken my phone without my consent, and was thus far, refusing to return it.’

‘With that, AK47 did lunge at me, and grabbed my second mobile phone from me. The other two Guards joined in, and very soon I was in handcuffs, and was being led across the road and placed into the back of the squad car.’

‘So, they arrested you?’ says Leo, ‘for taking pictures?’

‘Spot on Leo,’ says Jimmie, ‘for taking pictures of the man getting beaten up.’

‘But it’s not a criminal offence to take pictures?’

‘Not that I am aware of,’ says Jimmie, ‘and