Justice on Trial

By Joe Browne

Matt is having a bad year. First, he loses his job. Then his wife kicks him out of their home and gets a barring order, forcing him to kip on his best friends couch.

Things couldnt get worse, could they?

Then poor Matt gets drunk, forgets about the barring order, goes home, and is promptly arrested, which introduces Matt to a totally different societyprison. Here, all the rules are different. It is a whole new world and one that most of us will never know.

We track Matts progress on his journey into the unknown and how he copes with everything that gets thrown at him. Read on to get a unique insight into this underbelly of Dublin life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524593681

Joe Browne

Born and raised in a middle-class family in Dublin, the author has had a long and varied career in sales and marketing. His life journey has brought him into contact with many facets of Dublin and indeed international society. He brings his experiences to life through his writing, which although often dark and dealing with serious matters, is written in a style that incorporates the unique blend of Dublin wit and sarcasm which will keep the reader both amused and captivated.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

F or fucks sake, Helen! The keys won’t bleeding work! Get your arse down here now and let me fucking in! Matt roared up at his wife who was at the bedroom window, from the doorstep.

Go and fuck off!, she roared back down at him. The locks are changed. That’s why the keys won’t work. You’re bleeding barred anyway ya drunken gobshite and the Garda are on the way. I’ve just got off the phone from them, so if I were you I’d make meself scarce rapid.

Curtains stirred as people up and down the cul-de- sac wondered what the racket was all about. Just then, the blue and white squad car pulled up with a screech of brakes and two large gardaí jumped out and approached Matt and tried to calm him down.

For fucks sake! I’m only trying to get into me own bleeding house to get a kip, Matt ranted.

Mr. Mc Grath, your wife called us and told us the situation. She says she’s afraid and she already has a barring order against you from the court. You are not allowed within four hundred feet of this house or your wife and I now place you under arrest for being in breech of that order. Do you understand that, Mr. Mc Grath?

I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m on my own property and youse can fuck off out of it….. Matt shouted.

With that, the two gardaí grabbed Matt and unceremoniously got him face down on the footpath. They restrained him while they handcuffed him behind his back. They drag him to the squad car with Matt still shouting abuse. Once he’s deposited in the back of the car, one of the garda gets in the driving seat while the other goes to speak to Helen, who has opened the front door an inch. Matt calms down realising that any further resistance is futile. A few minutes later, the second garda gets in the car and they speed off towards the police station. Matt doesn’t realise it yet but his life will never be the same again. The nosey neighbours flock around a sobbing Helen to console her. She laps up the attention and the offers of cigarettes and drinks.

Minutes later, the squad car pulls into the rear of the police station. Matt was taken from the car and walked to the back door, past several crashed and partly burnt-out cars and a couple of squad cars which had been through the wars and seen better days. Matt was sobering up rapidly. Fear of the unknown and nervousness overtook his earlier fury. He was brought to a large open office where several gardaí were answering phones or writing up files. From somewhere else in the building, he could make out the sounds of drunken shouting and also what he thought were quiet dismal sobs. The two gardaí who had brought him, took off his handcuffs and stood him in front of a desk where a busy looking sargeant was finishing a phone call.

Right Matt! Empty your pockets out on the desk there, one of them said.

Matt removed everything from his pockets: one wallet (empty), 28.44 euro, packet of fags, lighter, mobile phone, address book, comb and useless keys. He was also asked to take off his wristwatch and wedding ring. The sergeant finished his call.

Right Tom! What have we here? he said to one of the garda.

Matthew McGrath formerly of 36, St. Aidans Close. We got a call from his estranged wife Helen. She has a barring order against Matthew here and he turns up at the house, shouting the odds and demanding entry. We arrested him at 11.42p.m. at that address. I have a statement of complaint here from Mrs. McGrath and Matthew here was pretty abusive and resisted arrest.

Matt hung his head, shamefaced.

Right then Mr. McGrath, the sergeant said. Here’s the situation. I don’t recognise you, so I don’t think that you’re a regular here, are you?

"No sir. Never been in this station in my life, except to get a passport form stamped. Never been in any kind of trouble or arrested or anything.

Oh God! What’s going to happen to me?" Matt was practically in tears.

The sergeant took pity on him…

Look Matt, calm down now! What’s going to happen is this! I’ll fill out some forms and I will have to formally charge you. We’ll put you in the cells to wait. Then you’ll be brought to the Bridewell station for the night. That’s connected to the court and you’ll be brought there in the morning. Now. Have you a solicitor? No! Right, well Garda Farrell will be in the court in the morning and will make sure that you get a good one, okay?

Matt looked at him through misty eyes. You are going to put me in a cell, like a criminal? He looked at the sergeant incredulously.

We have to follow procedure Matt. Just try and relax and take it easy. You look like you had a few jars earlier. That should help you sleep. Garda Farrell will show you the way and get you a nice cuppa, okay?

Garda Farrell led him away, a broken man. They go to the back of the building and along a corridor with four doors on either side – the cells. Farrell insists on Matt removing his belt and shoes, deposits Matt into a cell, promises to be back shortly with a cup of tea and then the cell door closes. Matt realised that Farrell had taken his belt and shoes in case he wanted to hang himself. The thought never occurred to him till now. Maybe, it wasn’t a bad idea either, he thought. He looks around him. He had seen enough of these places on the telly, but nothing prepared him for the harsh reality. The three-inch thick squares of glass that served as a window, a concrete bench that served as a bed, a toilet in the corner and a door with a serving hatch and peep hole, but no handle. Even though, it was a warm balmy night, this cell chilled Matt to the bone. He slumped down on the concrete bed, head in hands, to await his fate.

After what seemed a lifetime to Matt, but was in fact about twenty minutes, Garda Farrell returned with a plastic cup of over-sweetened tea and gave Matt a single cigarette from his own pack, and gave him a light.

Can’t allow a lighter in the cells. Sorry Matt! If you want another smoke, just roar and someone will get one for you. They’re right outside the door. Ok? Farrell said kindly.

Matt sipped his tea and sucked the guts out of his cigarette, which was gone in seconds. He got Farrell to get him one more and he slumped down to enjoy it. When he finished the smoke two minutes later, he couldn’t sit easy and started to pace up and down the cell trying to make sense of the whole ridiculous situation he found himself in. It was like being in a nightmare, but he couldn’t wake up. He realised that he had fucked up royally, but did he really deserve this, for God’s sake. His marriage was well and truly over, he decided. It had never been the real thing anyway. He had been going steady with Helen, nothing serious, when she dropped the bombshell that she was carrying their child. No way would she even consider abortion, so a quick wedding was arranged. A month after the big day, Helen has a miscarriage. She was terribly depressed and seemed to blame Matt for the loss. The miscarriage had caused complications and it was highly unlikely that Helen would ever conceive again. She became a bitter, hateful woman and turned to boose and her mates to escape the grim reality of being married to a man she didn’t love. Trapped in a loveless marriage, Matt also turned to boose. He stayed out later and later in the pub after work, rather than facing going indoors to be faced by a stony silence or an argument. The need for money increased as they both spent heavily on alcohol. Matt started taking in extra print jobs (nixers), at the printers where he worked. These were mostly flyers and posters for local pubs and clubs, anything he could get cash for, to feed his ever-demanding habit. This kept him going until one Sunday his boss happened to call to the print shop to collect something. There was Matt, loading a van with flyers he had printed earlier. The boss went ballistic, sacked Matt on the spot and promised, Hollywood style, that Matt would never work in this town again. True to his word, Matt found every contact he had in the print game shunning him. Even when he applied for jobs from ads in the paper, the boss always managed to get wind of it and stick the boot in to block him. Being unemployable, Matt had no option but to go on the dole and get the odd day’s work on the building sites. His home life, already bad, became unbearable. After one blazing row, Helen had called the police and had Matt physically removed from the home. She claimed that Matt had threatened her and succeeded in getting, first a protection order and then a barring order from the courts. Matt had been staying on the couch of one of his mates, Greg, ever since. He was still drinking heavily and it was this that brought him to where he was now. Full of boose, he completely forgot about the barring order, wandered home drunk as a lord and started shouting the odds at Helen. Where would it all end, he thought. No marriage, no home, no security, no assets, no prospects and now sitting in a police cell awaiting his doom.

Despite himself, Matt soon got tired pacing and lay down on the concrete bed. All around him, he heard the noises from the other cells; coughs, snorts, farts, snores and a mournful sobbing. Every now and then someone would bang on the cell door to get the attention of the guards. Matt got the attention of one of them and got a lit cigarette for himself. He was told that they were nearly ready to deal with him. A half hour later, a guard came and brought Matt to the front office to face the sergeant.

Mr McGrath, I must now formally arrest and caution you okay?

Matt nodded dumbly.

The sergeant came from behind his desk and placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder. Matthew McGrath, I arrest you for breech of a barring order contrary to the Family Protection Act of 1953. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be written down and may be given in evidence against you. Do you understand this caution?

Matt nodded.

I now charge you as follows as set out on charge sheet 98-9034, that you Matthew McGrath, formerly of 36, St. Aidans Close, Dublin, 7, having being prohibited from attending said address by the Family Law court on 16th of June 1998, did unlawfully attend the said address, contrary to section 8 of the Family Law Protection Act of 1937. Do you understand?

Matt nodded.

Have you anything to say?

No sir.

Grand Matt. Just sign here to say you received a copy of the charge, rights of a person in custody and the custody record stating that you were not mistreated in any way.

Matt nodded and signed several papers put in front of him. He was then put back in handcuffs and brought out to a Transit van to join several others for their trip to the Bridewell.

CHAPTER TWO

T he van pulled out of the police station for the short drive into the Bridewell garda station, which is located at the back of the Four Courts in the centre of the city. No one speaks. There is a general air of gloom and depression. Unlike Matt, the other occupants of the van knew the kip they were heading for and what to expect. The prospect did not excite them. The van pulled into the rear of the station and all the prisoners were hustled into the cell reception area. Papers and possessions were handed over to the Garda on duty and put in lockers. All this was achieved at a rate of knots and within a couple of minutes Matt found himself lodged in a large cell with eight other prisoners. Hairy, green, vile smelling blankets were given in to them and they were told to settle down and get some kip. It was now 3a.m.

Back at the reception desk Sargeant McCarthy breathes a sigh of relief and takes a deep drink from his mug of coffee. Since midnight, there had been quite a number of reluctant guests arriving from various stations around the city. He runs through the list: a couple of regulars. One of them was so drunk that he’d banged on the door and demanded to be locked up.

Three fourteen year olds from Odevaney Gardens, dragged out of a crashed and stolen car. The driver had miraculously got away. He sighs forlornly, thinking of the great time he’d have talking to their parents, knowing that he would have no choice but to release them for lack of somewhere to put them and wondered what car they’d be in tomorrow. He hoped they wouldn’t kill themselves or anyone else before the state could step in, lock them up, get them off drugs and hopefully straighten themselves out.

A man and a woman caught selling E’s in a nightclub downtown. They also had a small quantity of heroin for personal use. The police doctor had seen them and left Foy to keep away their sickness.

Four junkies who had the bad luck to be mugging a couple of tourists as a squad car was passing. The doctor had a busy night.

Then there was a genius (Matt), who went home drunk as a lord despite the fact that his wife had a barring order against him.

All these, together with the usual catch of public order drunks meant that Sargeant McCarthy had a full house tonight. He’d heard that there was plans afoot for some of the specialist units to carry out a dawn swoop in a major operation and rank and file members had quite a few warrants to execute. He was glad that he was off duty at 8a.m. This place would be like a zoo.

Back in the cell, Matt huddled in a corner of the large cell. He covered himself in the disgusting, hairy blanket and tried his best to be invisible. He peeped out from under the covers at his cellmates. There were eight other people in the cell. Most of these were curled up snoring and there was an awful stench of sweat and alcohol. There was even riper smells from one or two who looked like tramps who slept on the streets. Two young men were pacing up and down, muttering among themselves and obviously agitated. Every couple of minutes they banged on the door and yelled at the guards for something call Foy. Matt had read about it in the papers and seen the queues outside the chemists, but this was the closest he had actually come to users. Eventually, a guard collected these two and brought them out. They returned a couple of minutes later and immediately curled up and went asleep in the corner with contented sighs. Matt rolled over, tried to block everything out and get some sleep himself. He had a feeling that it was going to be a long day. He was proved right.

After what seemed like five minutes, but was actually a couple of hours, Matt was woken by a prisoner banging on a cell door nearby and shouting his head off. He awoke with a start and as his eyes focussed on his surroundings, realised that this was no nightmare. This was actually happening to him. Despair, shame and depression hit him like a ton of bricks. All around him, other corpses groaned and stretched and unwound themselves from whatever awkward positions they had eventually fallen asleep in.

The cell door banged open and a couple of officers brought in plastic cups of tea and breakfast sandwiches from a local café. Most of the prisoners couldn’t even look at the food, let alone eat it. They squashed up the sandwiched and flung them at the door or the walls. Most drank their tea though and smoked cigarettes if they had them. Everyone kept to themselves, not knowing who or what they were locked up with. Several of the drunks were getting seriously agitated. A combination of hangover, shakes, dehydration and the longing for more booze drove them mad. They paced the cell like starving wolves and ran to the door shouting anytime they heard any signs of movement outside.

CHAPTER THREE

A round this time Mountjoy and its inmates begin to wake for the day.

A screw opens Wackers cell door.

William Kenny? Up and at ’em! You’re up in court this morning. If you want any breakfast, shift your arse now!

Ah, for fucks sake, its still dark!

Do you want breakfast or not?

Yeah, yeah. Keep your hair on. I’m getting bleeding up!

All along the wing, bodies are emerging from cells like zombies coming out of their graves. For some reason early mornings tend not to suit the inmates. Most make the effort to get up though. They know that it will be many long and boring hours before they get the opportunity to have a bite to eat or a cup of tea.

By the time the rest of the landings occupants are rising, the victims for the court are lined up at the gate, kits under their arms waiting for their escort. Shouts of good luck echo around the landing and then the screws come and take the prisoners through to reception. Here they surrender their kits and are given the clothes they were wearing when they arrived to wear to court. They change clothes rapidly and look at each other, reappraising their fellow prisoners, now dressed in their street finery as opposed to the drab grey and green of the prison remand uniform. They are then brought upstairs to await their transport to the courts. Some optimistic hopefuls are escorted to the general office to get their cash, jewellery, mobile phones etc. They have a smug expression on their faces that seems to say: you wont see me back here. Most are proved wrong.

Right lads, let’s go! Move them out!

The transport has arrived. Its affectionately known as the dog box, because no self-respecting horse would allow themselves be carried in it. The inside of the truck is divided into individual cells with no light and only a ventilation grid for a window. As usual, there are more bodies than cells and the prisoners are forced to double up. Already, there are some youngsters from St. Patrick’s Institution for young offenders and a couple of birds from the female’s prison. The trip to town is noisy. Everyone has a go at chatting up the birds, promising a brilliant time and multiple orgasms from the cover of darkness. Promises of letters and visits are exchanged and then the dog box rolls into the Bridewell.

The reception in the Bridewell is jam-packed. Police, prisoners and prison officers mill around a counter manned by a couple of confused and flustered looking gardaí, trying to make sense of it all. The arrivals from the dog box are logged, searched, their property placed in lockers and deposited in cells as quickly as possible. The cells stink of stale piss, greasy food and vomit. An air of depression descends on the prisoners, remembering the awful night they had spent in this place when first arrested. Mountjoy was five star compared to this kip. Gardaí and detectives arrive to escort their prisoners to the court. The route is through a tunnel that links the cell block to the holding cells beneath the court. The escorts unceremoniously drop the accused in a large cell and head upstairs to the court to chat with their mates.

Matt was picked up from his cell by Garda Farrell and escorted through the tunnel. He told Matt that he would arrange for a solicitor to come down to him. He dropped Matt off with the others and went upstairs to the court. Everyone else in the cell is also looking to see their solicitor, hoping for a last minute consultation before facing the wrath of the judge.

The judge sits in her chambers and prepares herself for the rigours of the day ahead. Sipping a cup of coffee, she looks over the morning list. As usual, it is enormous. She sighs and frowns as she reads down the endless list. Before her this morning was the usual mixed bag. Of course, there would be a huge amount of no-shows and arrest warrants to be issued, putting off the inevitable for another day. A lot of cases this morning would be remand applications, with or without bail, depending on the offence, the offender and the attitude of the arresting garda. Very few matters would be actually dealt with this morning. There were several cases in for hearing this afternoon. She picked up the phone and cancelled her provisional lunch date with a friend. She couldn’t see herself getting any more than fifteen minutes for a grabbed sandwich and a cup of coffee. She apologised to her friend, drained her coffee and walked determinedly into court.

SILENCE IN COURT.

All heads turn to look at the judge. The solicitors and gardaí get to their feet. A small percentage of the public gallery also rise. The judge frowns at the rest of them. The court is packed, standing room only. There are loads of young women with children in the gallery. My god, the judge thinks, what a place to bring small children. Several stoned looking individuals are slouched at the rear of the court. She wonders why they are here. She relishes the thought of dealing with these people. The court clerk calls the first case and the circus begins.

Down below in the holding cell, the prisoners pace up and down restlessly. The first few prisoners are dealt with rapidly and arrive back in the cell.

How’d ya get on? What happened to ya?

Fucking scumbag! Another week in custody! No bail, just jail! Has that bitch got a heart at all? I reckon her ole man ain’t doing his job right in the sack. Frustrated cunt has a mush on her like a slapped arse!

This gem of information does little to improve the mood in the cell. The pacing, muttering, shouting for solicitors and sucking on cigarettes continues.

Matt’s name is called by a young guy in a suit carrying a notebook. Matt goes to the bars of the cell to meet him.

Gerry Sullivan, Mr McGrath. I’ll be representing you. How are you?

He offers a handshake through the bars. Matt takes the offered hand instinctively, then comes to his senses…

How the hell do you think I am, for fuck’s sake?

Calm down, Mr McGrath. Now this is the way things will go. Garda Farrell will give his evidence. I’ll be assigned to you on free legal aid. You’re not working, by the way, are you?

Matt shakes his head stunned.

That’s fine so. I’ll be assigned. Garda Farrell will seek a remand in custody for a week. We won’t object and I’ll be up to see you in Mountjoy during the week….

What! Matt splutters. What do you mean we won’t object? Of course I bleeding object. I don’t want to go to prison for Christ’s sake.

Matthew, please let me explain. The judge will not grant bail on a barring order charge, she can’t! Think about it. Suppose she released you on bail, having heard evidence that your wife is in fear of you and you go and hurt your wife. The judge wouldn’t look very clever now, would she?

Matt just stared at him stunned.

Look Matthew, try not to worry. Let’s get through this as quickly as possible and I can talk to you properly up in the Joy, okay?

He hands Matt a business card and before Matt can open his mouth, turns on his heels and is gone back up the stairs to the court. Matt walks back across the cell as if in a trance. He slumps down on the bench and awaits his fate

In the dock is Gerry McClusky. Four gardaí queue up at the witness box to give their evidence. Gerry doesn’t look the best. His clothes and hair are scruffy and he has a couple of cuts on his face. He is well known to the court. A squad car had flagged him down at a routine checkpoint but Gerry was stopping for no one and a chase ensued. Eventually, three squad cars managed to block him in a cul de sac. Gerry had his girlfriend with him in the car. They both made a run for it but were easily captured and taken to the police station in separate cars. Gerry was charged and his girlfriend released. In evidence, the gardaí informed the judge that during questioning, they had been offered several different addresses for Gerry. Her honour decides to ask Gerry a few questions herself…

You seem confused about where you live, Mr Mc McClusky.

No, I’m not. I gave me right bleeding address all along. Don’t know what that daft bird said though!

Well the gardaí have three different addresses for you. How do you explain that?

I can’t, your honour. I told you, I gave the right name and address.

Let me help you, Mr McClusky. For the next week, you have a new address: 400, North Circular Road, Dublin, 7. No more confusion! Take him down.

Bitch, mutters Gerry as he is led down to the cells.

Next in the dock is Francis O’Sullivan. Frankie is about fifty years old and has spent more of his life behind bars than at liberty. He has a long history of troublemaking and violence when drunk, which is pretty much every waking hour. He’d been seen tapping in Temple Bar. A young rookie tried to move him on and got a bottle across the head for his trouble. The judge remands him in custody for a week but Frankie has to have his say….

I was only minding me own business, Frankie shouts. That prick scared the shite out of me, sneaking up on me like that!

Take him down! shouts your honour.

An’ you’re no bleeding better, sitting up there like lady bleeding muck, looking down your nose at the likes of me. Who do ya fucking think you are. Ya should have been smothered at birth, ya tramp!

Get that man out of my court now!

Frankie is propelled down the stairs, none too gently by a burly garda.

Garda Sweeney and James Sullivan followed by Garda Farrell and Matthew McGrath. Matt is brought out of the cell and is told to wait at the top of the stairs while the case before him is heard.

Jim takes his place in the dock from the public gallery. He is at liberty on bail. Garda Sweeney takes the witness stand and is sworn in. The garda applies for a further remand to complete his investigation. Jim’s solicitor jumps to his feet and objects most strongly, claiming that this is the third such remand and that the garda have been afforded ample time and opportunity to prepare their case. Garda Sweeney apologises to the court and claims that his colleague’s absence on sick leave is the cause of all the delays. The judge interrupts…

Am I to take it Garda Sweeney, that you are incapable of handling this matter on your own, or that the work of the whole police force and indeed the court, should grind to a halt because of the absence of your colleague?

No, your honour, but we are understaffed and…

"Take it up with the minister. Strike out. Next case please.

A bewildered looking Matt is told to stand in front of the judge. Garda Farrell takes the stand and is sworn in. Matt stands there as Farrell gives his evidence. He can’t hear a word. Then he sees Mr. Sullivan stand and talk to the judge. Again, all he can hear is a mutter.

Mr. McGrath, the judge addresses him directly. Are you unemployed? Matt nodded.

Very well. I appoint Mr Sullivan as your solicitor under the free legal aid scheme. Remand in custody for seven days. Take him down.

That was it. In twenty seconds, the judge had deprived Matt of his liberty for a week and he hadn’t even had the chance to say a word. Stunned, he is brought back down