I swore to listen fairly, deciding fair and squarely on what I heard and could see and not what I thought should be.


The charge was one of robb’ry with aggravated yobb’ry and in the dock, like putty, my killer, ginger-nutty.


Defendant Patrick Brady had sons and his old lady and whole extended fam’ly assembled in the gall’ry,


As nervously, suspectly, complexioned-fair and freckly, he mirrored me at thirty but never quite as dirty.


When called to take the stand, he stood tall, erect and tanned, he looked every inch the goodie, the opposite of hoodie.


“Not guilty,” said he strongly, “identified quite wrongly, the CCTV’s jerky, besides, I was in Turkey.”


The case against him, shaky, fell, crumbling and earthquakey to dust like any shanty – the evidence was scanty.


I sat there in my fury, as chairman of the jury, tormented, vengeful, angry, and eyed him, dopplegangly.


The judge, decrepit, wilty, asked, “Is the fellow guilty?” “Oh yes, sir, absolutely.” Said I, the crim' stood mutely.


Be-numbed, bereft then dizzy, he wailed – the screws got busy – the screaming grew more croaky, they took him down to Chokey.


At fifty-one, I’m healthy, as popular as wealthy, as fair and ever testy at any new travesty.


I’m praised, and not so faintly, as bordering on saintly, a Solomon, a grandee, a Buddha or a Gandhi.


Proselytising ably, I humbly say, quotably, “Speak not of Justice glibly! Defend it! Invincibly!”


DERMOT CARNEY


35


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