“Have you any idea how Miss Harris might have come to the conclusion that you were dead?”
“No. Right after I finished filming with Jay, I emigrated to Australia for work but recently returned home. I haven’t been around, but I certainly haven’t been dead.”
“Thank you, Mr Murphy. That’s all I wanted to ask.”
Brian and Una’s barrister, Thomas Jenkins, rises swiftly from his seat, clearly eager to bombard David with questions.
“Mr Murphy, before my client published her article, she had collected several pieces of documentation to show that you had died of a heart attack. These documents have subsequently gone missing from the secure location where they were being stored. Even the soft copies and the original government and hospital records have vanished without a trace. Do you know anything about this?”
David leans into the microphone. “No, I do not.”
Hmm, even if he doesn’t, I’m sure Jay does. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, my gaze narrowed in wariness and just a little bit of awe.
“Did Mr Fields recruit you to fake your own death?”
David laughs loudly now. “No, of course not. This isn’t a movie, Mr Jenkins.” I notice a couple of members of the jury try to suppress their smiles.
Thomas Jenkins’ mouth forms a thin, displeased line.
“My client, Miss Harris, was led to believe that Mr Fields paid a large sum of money to your mother for funeral expenses. Do you know anything about this?”
“Yes, I do. Jay did give my mother money, but it wasn’t for a funeral. It was a loan for home renovations that has now been paid back in full. I’m not sure where your client got the idea it was for a funeral.”
Dad steps forward and provides all the required evidence for the loan. Brian and Una’s barrister throws a few more clever questions at David, but he has foolproof responses to all of them, even slyly hinting that Una never had the documents she claims she had in the first place.
After the lunch break, Thomas Jenkins calls a witness, a guy named Blake who apparently worked as a cameraman on Jay’s show, and who Una claims has been an informant of hers for the past two years. She also claims that Blake was the one who originally informed her of David’s passing.
They all seem confident that Blake is going to prove that something was amiss and that Una had been tricked into believing David was dead. However, when Blake takes the stand, he denies all association with Una and firmly states that he never told her that David Murphy had died. Una claims that all of her dealings with Blake had been in person, so she has no proof that the meetings actually took place.
Again, Jay’s trickery is stamped all over this. I’m almost starting to feel sorry for Una. I’m also starting to wonder if Jay had been planning this entire thing since before she ever wrote a single word about him.
Which only brings forth a whole bucketful of other questions.
The judge asks the jury to retire to the jury room and consider their verdict. I have absolutely no doubt that they are going to decide in Jay’s favour. It seems like a forgone conclusion, really. Waiting for the verdict is not what has my heart pounding in apprehension. If I know anything about Jay by now, I know that there is a reason for everything he does, and what I really want to know is why he orchestrated all of this.
Why did he want to destroy Una Harris and Brian Scott?
Twenty-Nine
The jury’s deliberation carries on through the night and most of the next day. We all arrive in court the following morning bright and early for the verdict. Jay and I haven’t spoken much, but there has been a lot of meaningful eye contact going on, mine full of unanswered questions.
Brian Scott is there with his team, but Una Harris is nowhere to be found. Early this morning there were news reports claiming that after the scandal of phone and email hacking, The Daily Post is going to be shut down. And it wasn’t even Jay’s story that was the catalyst. It was the story of Una exposing Victor Nugent’s private affairs, which was shortly followed by him taking his own life, that has incited the anger against the publication.
The fact that Una came by her information illegally has had the entire country in uproar, with readers boycotting The Daily Post entirely. If the newspaper does close down, over one hundred people are going to lose their jobs, and I’m not sure how well that sits with me.
By the judge’s request, the forewoman of the jury stands up to give the verdict. A clerk asks her if the jury has reached a verdict, to which she replies with a simple, “Yes.”
“Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?” asks the clerk.
“Guilty,” replies the forewoman.
“Is that the verdict of you all?”
“Yes.”
Well, surprise, surprise. And when I say “surprise,” I mean no surprise. Dad and Jay shake each other’s hands and pat one another on the back in victory. I’m delighted for them, really I am. Dad just seems so happy, and it’s incredible to see that. I haven’t seen him smile like this since before Mum died.
Brian Scott beams rays of hate across the courtroom at Jay with nothing but his eyes. Jay doesn’t notice, though, and that’s mainly because his attention is fixed firmly on me. He seems…apprehensive.
As I said, the guilty verdict is no surprise. What is a surprise is the sum of money that gets awarded to Jay. Two. Million. Euros. No, I’m not joking. That’s a lot for this country. I’d expected one hundred thousand, maybe two, but two million? Wow.
As soon as he can, Jay makes his way to my side, his hands in his pockets. “Watson, we need to talk.”
“I’m…I’m not feeling very well. I think I might still have a touch of the flu. I’m going to go home and lie down.”
“But I’m treating everyone to a celebratory lunch. Come on, I want you there.”
Looking into his eyes, I can’t bring myself to say no to him, so I nod weakly. He puts his hand to the small of my back and leads me from the courthouse. The press are waiting in their droves, and Jay insists I stand by his side as he gives a statement.
I’m in a bit of a daze, because normally I wouldn’t agree to be on television like that. Jay’s statement is going to be on every news channel this evening, I’m sure. And I will be right there with him, probably wearing a comically confused look on my face.
Everything that happens after the verdict feels like a blur. Before I know it, I’m sitting in a nice Italian restaurant with Jay, Dad, and Will, eating spaghetti carbonara and trying to figure out why my brain feels like it’s turning to mush. I feel like I’m trapped inside one of those swirly optical illusions that make you dizzy just looking at them.
There is information in some dark recess of my brain, just dying to break its way out, to help me understand what’s really going on.
Jay has barely stopped staring at me, his gaze probing and intense. Dad and Will chat amiably about the success of the trial as I push back my seat and stand up, excusing myself to go to the bathroom.
I don’t go to the bathroom.
Instead, I walk right out of the restaurant and hail a taxi to take me home. When I get there, the prospect of going inside is too suffocating, so I decide to take a walk to clear my head. I cross the road and walk toward the promenade. When I find an empty bench, I sit down and stare out at the water.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been there when something drops down beside me. I glance to my left to see a stack of old letters tied together with some string. I can feel somebody looming over me. Jay.
I don’t turn to look at him.
“What are these?” I ask curiously, picking them up and setting them in my lap.
“Letters written by my mother,” he answers. “Why did you run out of the restaurant like that? We were worried about you, and you weren’t answering your phone.”
I face-palm. “Damn. I’m sorry. It’s on silent. I just needed to get some air. Letters?”
He walks around the bench and lowers himself to sit, his arm resting across the back of it. I can feel his heat. “Yeah, I want you to read them. When I was just a kid, I used to think she was writing in a diary, but that wasn’t it. She was writing letters to my uncle. She used to write to him every week without fail, and the prick never wrote her back. He’d read them and then set them aside. I think he was using it as an experiment to see how long she’d keep writing without ever receiving a reply.”