“Bitch has more issues than Vogue,” Jessie mutters under her breath, and I laugh.
The rest of the day moves fairly slowly, and there are no more big revelations. I leave the courthouse with Dad and Jay, the press hounding us with questions, to which they receive a firm “no comment.” We quickly locate Jay’s car, and he drives us home. Unlike yesterday, he doesn’t stay for dinner, but instead leaves right after he’s dropped us off.
The next day of the trial goes as follows: Una’s second PA (yes, the woman actually has two assistants) takes the witness stand. This one is a guy, and he basically goes against everything Emma Feelan said the day before, painting Una as the perfect, most generous boss a person could ask for. Then Dad calls Una to the stand, and that’s when things start to get interesting.
“Miss Harris, in 2004, did you write an article exposing the private life of government TD Victor Nugent?”
Una narrows her eyes at Dad. “Yes, I’d been covering politics at the time and discovered that Mr Nugent had been procuring the services of prostitutes.”
“And how did you come by this information?”
“I have informants,” Una replies sharply. “All journalists do.”
“Did you tap his phone or hack into his computer like you did with my client?”
“How is this relevant?” Thomas Jenkins objects. “We are not here to talk about past articles. We’re here to talk about the articles Miss Harris wrote about Mr Fields.”
“I assure you, my line of questioning is extremely relevant, Justice,” says Dad to the judge.
“Continue,” says the judge with a casual gesture of his hand.
“You can answer my question, Miss Harris,” says Dad, turning back to Una.
Her one-word reply sounds strained. “No.”
“Mr Nugent took his own life a few months after you broke the story. Are you aware of this?”
“Of course I am.”
“Do you hold yourself responsible?”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “No.”
“Do you think that if you hadn’t written the article, Mr Nugent would still be alive and well today?”
“I can’t know that. But I will say that Victor Nugent was supposed to be an upstanding member of society, and the things he was doing needed to be exposed.”
Really, the irony here is just laughable. Una Harris judging someone else’s tawdry private life after everything that’s come to light about her. I guess everyone’s the hero of their own story.
“And did you go to great lengths to expose them, Miss Harris?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘great lengths,’” Una states, her voice hard.
“Did you hack into his private email account?”
“No.”
“Thank you. That will be all, Miss Harris.”
Una leaves the witness stand and returns to her seat, while Dad picks up a folder and offers it to the judge. “Here I present records of Victor Nugent’s personal email account being accessed from Una Harris’ home computer in 2004. The emails accessed are also included, alongside a copy of the article Miss Harris published in The Daily Post several days later. As you can see, information from these emails has been used, almost verbatim, in the article.”
I seriously have no words. I really wish I had been working with Dad on this case instead of with Will these past few months, because seriously, I don’t think I can take any more surprises.
The next few days are absolute madness. All across the country, people are in an uproar over The Daily Post, and every television channel, radio station, and newspaper is calling for the publication to be shut down. Una has been branded a devil and Brian the one who gave her a platform to work from.
The biggest surprise, though, is still to come. And even though there isn’t any magic involved, I like to think of it as Jay’s prestige. His big finish. And, inarguably, the final nail in the dual coffin of Una Harris and Brian Scott.
Twenty-Eight
It’s the second-to-last day of the trial. Tomorrow the jury will decide on a verdict. I’m fairly confident that Jay is going to get some serious compensation, but there’s always the chance that things could change. Despite all of the evidence brought forward against them, Brian and Una’s legal team have still managed to salvage some of the case.
Dad is to call forward one more witness. Reporters had shown up at our house this morning, looking for statements from Dad, so we were all in a fluster to get to court on time. By contrast, Jay is cool as a cucumber. He’s wearing my favourite suit, the light grey one, and looks as handsome as ever.
There’s a peace about him, like the turmoil inside his head is all coming to a conclusion.
I’m so busy admiring his gorgeous profile that I don’t listen when Dad calls his final witness. There are shocked gasps from those in the gallery, and the men and women in the jury. Brian is getting up from his seat, running a hand through his greying hair and looking entirely discombobulated, while Una has gone pale as a ghost, her expression distraught.
“What the hell’s going on?” I ask Will, who’s sitting beside me.
“Haven’t you been listening?” he whispers animatedly. “David Murphy is the witness.”
“Huh?”
“David Murphy. Jay’s volunteer. The one Una reported had died of a heart attack.”
I swear to God, it really is too early in the morning, because my brain refuses to comprehend what he’s telling me.
“I don’t understand.”
“Christ, Matilda. Didn’t Hugh tell you?”
“No. He and Jay have actually been very tight-lipped about the particulars of the case,” I say somewhat shakily. “David Murphy is alive?”
“Yes!” says Will excitedly.
I don’t understand how this can be possible. I mean, Una might be underhanded, but I didn’t think she could be this dumb. She must have had some kind of proof of the man’s death before she decided to break her story, right? And Jay! My God. He’s been playing everyone this entire time, never once correcting anyone when they spoke of David’s heart attack.
This is fucked up. This is…amazing.
I can’t believe the sneaky, clever, trickster bastard managed to pull this off.
And now I have no words.
Finally, I manage to pull myself together enough to become aware of the fact that all hell has broken loose. Una is standing up and yelling at Jay, who’s sitting back calmly in his chair, one sardonic eyebrow raised and the ghost of a satisfied smile on his mouth.
“This is outrageous. The man sitting in the witness box cannot be David Murphy. I held his death certificate in my own two hands!” Her previously pale complexion has now turned red with fury as she points her finger at Jay.
The judge slams his gavel down hard and calls for Una to contain herself.
“Are you sure about that, Una?” Jay asks casually, flicking a coin through his fingers with expert precision. “David Murphy is a pretty common name in this country. Perhaps you were confusing him with somebody else.”
“I am not confused. I saw it! You did this. You knew all along that he wasn’t dead.”
“Miss Harris,” says the judge. “Please sit down.”
It takes another few minutes for order to be restored and for Dad to begin his examination.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I suppose I should begin by asking you to clarify who you are?”
David smiles. He’s actually quite handsome, probably in his mid-thirties, with a mop of thick brown hair. “I’m David Murphy.”
“The same David Murphy who took part in Mr Fields’ television show as a volunteer?”
“That’s right.”
“And you are alive?”
A chuckle. “I should hope so.”
Dad picks up a passport, birth certificate, and driver’s licence, handing them to David. “Are these documents yours?”
“They are indeed.”
The judge requests to see David’s identification documents before Dad can continue with his questioning.