She Said, Three Said Page 3

  It’s justifiable that the jurors are genuinely torn on which side to believe in this instance. There was no CCTV footage, just three witnesses on each side cancelling out each other’s perception of what really happened.

  ‘The problem here is,’ Number Twelve continues, ‘one party or the other is lying all through this case. Straight from the bat somebody is lying and that could, conceivably, lead us to believe that they are lying about everything else.’

  The jurors begin to talk over each other, most debating against Number Twelve’s argument. But he raises the palm of his hand to silence them. He hadn’t finished what he was saying. ‘Sorry, if you don’t mind me just finishing my point with this… the truth is, if we look at all the evidence, little that there is in this case, we don’t and never will know who approached who first. All we have is our gut feeling. Our opinion. And that’s not enough in this room.’

  The jurors soak in Number Twelve’s last sentence. They know this, were told this by the judge. Yet it’s so easy to lose track of such instruction; so easy to be swayed by instinct, by opinion.

  The judge had eyeballed each and every juror before setting them off on their deliberations after the trial ended this morning. He tried to get through to them that they could only convict Jason, Zach and Li if they felt the prosecution proved beyond all reasonable doubt that non-consensual sex occurred on the night in question. But some of the jurors still aren’t entirely sure what ‘reasonable doubt’ means exactly. Number Twelve and Brian made attempts at defining the phrase for them, but at least five people sitting around this table are still genuinely confused by the phrase. This is not a new phenomenon in these jury rooms. This lack of understanding of the legal processes occurs on a daily basis in here; jurors unclear on the exact protocol they should follow when examining a trial. The judge had told jurors that they shouldn’t use their gut instinct, shouldn’t use opinion, should only go by the evidence they heard at the trial. Number Five has been totally thrown by this. She can’t comprehend that her opinion holds no value.

  ‘It can’t be proven,’ Brian raises his voice again, his Dublin accent thickening, ‘beyond reashonable doubt that Sabrina approached the boys or that the boys approached Sabrina first. So we’ll have to chalk this down as an even reshult.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean even result?’ Number Three asks. ‘It’s not a bloody football match here. We’re each entitled to our own individual feelings on this and I genuinely believe that the lads were on a mission — as they probably are every time they go out — to find the hottest girl in the pub to bring to Jason. There is a witness who confirms this.’

  ‘There are witnesses who say the opposite,’ Number Twelve bites back. But his point is barely heard over the murmurings of everybody else around the table. They all have their own views. And they all want to be heard.

  ‘Can we calm down please?’ Brian says, standing to attention. ‘Number One, please…’ he says to his nemeses, almost embarrassing the Head Juror into curtailing the behaviour around the table.

  ‘Okay… okay,’ Number One says, shuffling the butt of his paperwork off the table again. ‘We have heard from six witnesses and this matter of who approached who first practically evens itself out, just like Number Twelve said. We will not know who approached who first. Perhaps we should move—’

  ‘If we believe — as Sabrina testified on the stand as well as in her original police statement — that she didn’t know who Jason Kenny was, then surely we can believe that she didn’t approach him,’ Number Three says, opening up another branch of the same argument just as Number One seemed to be bringing it to conclusion. Number Seven sighs as the debate ripples around her. Then she rises from her seat.

  ‘I’m pouring myself a tea, anyone want one?’ she calls out, hoping a quick break will offer everyone a chance to digest the argument and calm down.

  ‘Go on,’ Number Four says. He’s the only one who paid any attention to her question.

  The rest of them are still mumbling their views on who approached who first in the Hairy Lemon.

  Number Four rises from his seat and follows Number Seven towards the tiny table that stands just inside the door. The only facilities the jurors have inside the jury room rest on this table; a silver dispenser that produces both cold and boiled water, different flavoured tea bags, a jar of instant coffee, a jug of milk and a choice of either plain or chocolate digestive biscuits. The only other object taking up floor space is the mahogany conference table. It’s oval, a bit like a rugby ball; six chairs either side of it. A black carton, about shoe-box in size, rests atop it. The carpet’s bright red, just as it was in the courtroom — the exact shade of red you’d normally find a movie star gliding across at a premier. Everything else is white; the walls, the ceiling, even the modern rectangular lampshade hovering over the table is a bright white. The bulb is always switched on, shining an unflattering light down on to the top of the juror’s heads. They will be given a break in the corridors soon, just to stretch their legs. At lunch time they’ll be brought to a different room, left alone to further discuss the trial over their beef or chicken dish if they so wish. But that won’t be for another three hours.

  ‘Whaddya think of this handjob?’ Number Four whispers to Number Seven as he pushes down on the tap, releasing cold water into his glass.

  ‘Not a chance. Four minutes?’ she replies, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Ah… I don’t know,’ Number Four says, shaking his hand side to side. Number Seven snort-laughs, then holds up an apologetic hand over Number Four’s shoulder towards the rest of the jurors. Their faces had swivelled towards her at the sound of her snort. She waits until they all resume talking, then whispers back into Number Four’s ear.

  ‘That how long it takes you, yeah?’

  ‘It does actually.’

  They both stifle their laughs. Number Four and Number Seven had already decided to be friends via body language within the first week of the trial. Their friendship had now developed to a level where they would make eye contact with each other whenever one of the other jurors produced a tic; like when Brian would talk over somebody, or when Number One would bounce his paperwork off the table, or when Number Five would say something close to outlandish, or when Number Twelve would use the word ‘logic’. When any of these tics occurred, Number Four and Number Seven would stare at each other, then twitch a muscle in their cheek to signal a stifled smile.

  ‘So what do you two think then?’ Number One directs at the pair of them from the far side of the conference table.

  The whole table stares at them.

  ‘Sorry?’ Number Four says, turning to look back over his shoulder.

  ‘Will we leave that discussion there? I mean we could get back to it at some point… but shall we move on?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Number Four. Number Seven nods her head, mouths a silent ‘yeah’, then sits back down. She offers a purse of her lips to Number Six who is sitting directly across from her; has felt sorry for the woman since the first day of the trial. Number Seven has an inkling that Number Six really doesn’t want to be here. But she couldn’t be more wrong. Number Six is revelling in this. Nobody has been able to put an accurate age on her. Physically, she looks older than her sixty-eight years; her face is worn, wrinkles wedge deep into her forehead and cheeks — most likely because she has smoked at least twenty cigarettes every day for the past half a century — but although she is mostly quiet, she’s not bored, just observant.

  ‘Unless… Number Six, do you have anything to add?’ Number Seven suggests, directing her hands across the table.

  Number Six peels her back, vertebrae by vertebrae, from the fake leather chair in almost slow motion, pokes her chin out so that it’s parallel to the table, looks at the faces of all six jurors sitting on the opposite side to her, then forgets to speak. Everybody sits wide-eyed, staring at her… waiting. She picks up the cold glass of water in front of her, sips from it, swirls the water around her mouth — making muc
h more noise than most would deem appropriate — then places the glass back down with a thud. She lets out a gasp of satisfaction.

  ‘I’d like to move on to the handjob,’ she says.

  19:15

  Zach

  I’ll never understand why grown men and women don’t have enough cop on to leave Jason alone when he’s out with his mates. I’ve already brushed one of them aside, but there are too many gathering now. Too many to hush away without making Jason look like a prick.

  ‘Here mate, will ye take a pic of me with Jason Kenny?’ some youngfella asks me. I sigh, let him know this isn’t why I fucking came out tonight, but take the phone he’s offering anyway, guide him towards Jason and call Jason’s name so they’re both facing the lens while I take the pic.

  ‘Here ye go,’ I say, handing the phone back. The youngfella pinches at his screen.

  ‘Ah, will ye take another one, mate, my eyes are half closed in—’

  ‘No,’ I snap back at him, turning towards Li.

  Li normally laughs at how short I can be with Jason’s fans. But he’s not there. He’s scooted away from the small crowd, pretending to stare at shitty movie posters on the wall instead.

  I don’t know how Jason has the patience to keep that fake smile on his face while he does this shit. I wouldn’t be able for it. It’s a good job he’s the one who made it as a professional, and not me. I’d probably be locked up by now for punching fucking idiots who felt it was appropriate to ask me for an autograph while I’m out having fun with me mates.

  Getting an autograph just seems so tedious to me. It used to be bad enough when people wanted just that – Jason’s name scribbled on a piece of paper — but camera phones have changed the game. All people want now is a photo – proof that they’ve actually bumped into Jason as if it’s some kind of achievement for them. Sad fuckers.

  The frustrating thing about the camera phone is that the cunts never have the bleedin’ setting ready. They’re always fumbling around with their buttons, trying to find the camera app while Jason stands there waiting with a fake smile plastered across his face.

  Maybe I got lucky missing out on all this shit. I was always a better player than Jason. He’d even admit that himself. But he got the breaks. I didn’t. I think it’s to do with the fact that he grew into himself. I’m still the same height I was when I was fourteen. His natural physique is more in tune with being a professional footballer. Plus – and I only realised this later — Jason had more support from his family. His da practically coached us from when we were about nine years old. His family would be on the sidelines of every home match in Benmadigan Park, cheerin’ us on. He had a stable upbringing. Mine was shite in comparison. My ma and da couldn’t even tell you what position I played in. My brothers used to play a bit themselves, but by the time I was fourteen, fifteen — that kinda age — they’d already fucked off to live in different corners of the world.

  They couldn’t stand living in our fractured home, couldn’t stand living under the same roof as our folks. Callum moved to Sydney when he was just eighteen. He was supposed to go travelling for a year — is still there twenty years later. Brad was twenty-one when he fucked off to Toronto. I’ve often felt like following one of them overseas. To getaway from Drimnagh, get away from Dublin. But I don’t think running away from problems is what will make me happy. I genuinely think my older brothers are cowards. I face up to my problems. I’ve even told me ma and da that they are the reason I didn’t make it as a professional footballer. But they couldn’t give a shit. They’ve no interest in what I’m doing, let alone what I’m not doing.

  I sip on my beer, wait for the small crowd to go away and try to dream up an epic night out for the three of us. It’s been ages since we’ve been out together. Jason barely drinks anymore. Just on the odd occasion that me and Li persuade him to. We always have a session in Dublin when the footie season ends. It’s the only time each year that we get to spend some quality time doing what we used to do. A few times over the season myself and Li fly over to games, sit in the VIP area of some of the best stadiums in England to take in the games. But the novelty of that died off years ago. It’s actually a bit of a slog to go over now. Almost boring. Jason has to be super professional. So when we do call over to see him, it’s normally beans on toast suppers while watching Netflix in his gaff. Pretty much the same as I do at home with me bird.

  I sigh as another youngfella offers me his phone.

  ‘Sorry mate, it’s not my job,’ I say before he leans in towards Jason, holds his phone out, fumbles with the button and tries to take a selfie.

  ‘Ah, here – gimme the fuckin’ thing,’ I say before taking a picture of him with a footballer he probably doesn’t even rate that much.

  After handing the phone back, I decide to walk away from the crowd, do as Li normally does; step aside and pretend it’s not happening.

  I look towards Li, notice him walking the most amazing lookin’ bird towards us. Fuckin’ hell. She’s deadly. I love brunettes. There’s something more naturally sexy about a brunette than any other hair colour.

  I shuffle towards Li, try to eyeball him, try to say well done, mate. But his eyes haven’t left the girl’s face. That’s unusual for him.

  I watch her shake hands with Jason and as I approach I hear him offer to buy her a drink. Bastard. He got in there before me.

  19:20

  Jason

  I’m sure there are worse things to be experiencing than having a queue of people lining up to take a picture with you. I try to remind myself of that on a consistent basis. But the awkwardness of this never fades. Especially when someone mumbles the word ‘legend’ in my direction. I hate being called that, as stupid as that sounds. I’m far from a legend. Nobody in the football world would class me as a legend. But people just want to say that word to me when they meet me, as if they feel a need to sensationalise my ability. It’s just verbal diarrhoea. Utter bullshit. And it makes me feel instantly awkward.

  It happens a lot more here than it does in the UK. Probably because the Irish are a lot friendlier by nature. But it’s probably more to do with the goal I scored for the national team against Holland. A saucy half-volley that guaranteed we qualified for the 2012 European Championships. It was a freak. I’m not a goal scorer, never was. It’s rare Irish supporters have much to celebrate, much to remember. But that goal is up there. If I tried that half-volley another hundred times, it wouldn’t end up in the net once. But that’s football. It’s much more a game of luck than anyone cares to admit. And I’m one of the luckiest fuckers around.

  I watch Zach take another phone from another fan and almost laugh out loud as he takes the pic. I’m well aware he’ll be boiling inside. I’ve often joked with him that it’s a good job I became famous and he didn’t. He doesn’t have the patience to be a modern-day professional footballer. Truth be known, he didn’t have the ability for it either. Not that I’ve ever said that to him.

  ‘Hey Jason, this is… this is..?’ Li says to me, pointing out one of the most stunning-looking girls I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Sabrina,’ she says, flashing a smile. ‘Sabrina Doyle.’

  Wow. She’s hot.

  ‘Lemme get you a drink, Sabrina Doyle,’ I say. It’s probably as unoriginal as opening lines go – offering to buy a drink – but it was the first thing that popped into my head.

  ‘Eh… sure. A… red wine,’ she says.

  ‘C’mon,’ I say, ushering her towards the bar with me. She seems as nice as she looks; shy almost. Actually reminds me of the first girl I ever fancied. Valarie Byrne. She went to Mourne Road primary school with us. All the boys fancied her. But I didn’t stand a chance. A pretty little brunette with a dimple on each cheek was never gonna look at the pasty-skinned, freckly ginger kid.

  I actually never had a girlfriend until I found fame. I’ll never know what it’s like for somebody to actually like the real me, not the celebrity. My therapist tries to drill into me that I am a celebrity, it’
s part of who I am and that if fame is attractive to some people, then that’s great; because I have fame. He says I shouldn’t be too paranoid about it. I don’t know… celebrity is just so complex that I’m of the thinking it’s pointless even trying to understand it. And fuck knows I’ve tried for long enough.

  I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I wouldn’t have wound up depressed if it wasn’t for my celebrity, though. All I remember from before I made my first-team debut for Everton is happiness. Even when my brother Eric was born — and diagnosed with his heart condition — our family were still happy. It was a big blow, but us Kennys just bandied together. We didn’t let the fact that one of us had a ticking bomb for a heart get in the way of us all enjoying our lives — however many years they were going to last.

  Mam and Dad’s outlook was always positive. I’d give up all of the money I have now, all of my fame, in return for an ounce of their positivity. I don’t know where mine went. It’s almost like I had to sacrifice my happiness to become a successful footballer.

  FifPro released a survey they carried out a couple of years ago about depression in footballers. Their research found that thirty-eight per cent of professionals end up clinically depressed within a decade of retiring from the game. That shocked the world. Didn’t shock me. I pal around with pro footballers. Most of them are unhappy. Not that they’d admit it though.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ I ask Sabrina as I hand her the glass of red.

  ‘Me? What do you do more like? Why is everyone keen to get a picture taken with you?’

  ‘I’m a green grocer,’ I tell her. It’s my usual line. Especially to girls who play dumb.

  ‘Well your apples and pears must be the best in the business if people feel they need to get a photo with you,’ she says laughing. Fuck. That’s a helluva laugh. I could fall in love with this one.