The Trib (19 page)

In its totality, Ahern's evidence over twelve days, allied to bank documents and the evidence of his assorted friends, paint a number of scenarios. Three are offered here, which, it is hoped, draw fair conclusions from what we have heard.

The first is the most benign. Ahern is largely telling the truth. His complicated
finances
can be put down to the fallout from his marital break-up. He has embellished or fudged the story here and there in an effort to retain some privacy about his personal affairs. Such a course would be in keeping with his conduct in public life, when, at times, most of us weren't sure what he was saying and whether he meant to say it.

His slowness to co-operate could be attributed to an abhorrence of having to deal with personal matters in a public forum. He wouldn't have been the first tribunal witness who tried to conceal stuff on the basis that it exposed him to attention in other forums, but which had nothing to do with the inquiry's terms of reference.

If the judges were to rule that his transgressions were of that order, he could expect sanction in the report, but nothing major. He would, to a greater extent, be back where he was in September 2006 when the story first broke. The fullness of his contribution to public life would negate in the public mind any perceived minor transgressions.

The second scenario, one which he rejects out of hand, is not benign but, perhaps his supporters would claim, isn't a hanging offence either. Let's say he had a hidden bank account or facility, during his marital break-up, most likely outside the State, possibly in Manchester.

He wouldn't be the first spouse in a break-up situation to hide money away. In some quarters, there would be tolerance for such a move. Into this facility he would have poured his savings between 1988 and 1993, which, according to his accountant, could have amounted to £80,000. The subsequent cash lodgements were merely the repatriating of the funds after his legal separation was finalised.

In such a scenario, there would be no question of him getting funds from any other source. Despite the dishonesty involved, it would have been entirely a personal matter that would not have impacted on his public duties.

The digouts and whip rounds would have actually happened, even if the shaky evidence suggests they did not. He wouldn't have any tax issues to worry about, as the money was taxed at source.

His main problem would be in failing to give a sworn inquiry a truthful account of his affairs. That is a serious criminal offence, albeit one that is difficult to prosecute. He could expect severe sanction in the report, but sections of the public – particularly in his own party – might be more forgiving. His reputation would be damaged, but he could call on the capital he has built up over his three decades in public life. The damage would be serious, but not fatal.

The only problem with the above scenario is the sums don't add up. It would require confirmation that his stories about relodgements, and the yarn about Wall plonking thirty grand sterling on his desk, were true. It would require a series of coincidences and changes of mind to be just that. And it would require that the biggest coincidence of all – one of his lodgements equating to $45,000 – to be nothing more than bad luck. It would require a very benign interpretation of the cumulative evidence. But it is possible, however unlikely.

The worst case scenario is also one that he rejects out of hand. He received large sums of money, much of it sterling, from sources unknown. The evidence about relodging large sums, which crops up again and again, is false. The coincidences don't add up. His slowness to co-operate was an effort at obstruction, a path well worn by previous witnesses.

This scenario would have involved a major conspiracy to obstruct the tribunal. The dig-outs and whip-rounds, as presented, were fantasy. He was, in fact, the beneficial owner of the house in Beresford from day one. He failed to pay tax on the income. And the Dobson interview, his testimony to the Irish people, was lies from start to finish.

The damage to his legacy would be severe. A constant refrain from Ahern's supporters has been that whatever money he got, he wasn't corrupt. This is a mere play on words, a belief that he didn't agree to do anything specific for money that was given to him. It implies that a minister for finance can compartmentalise in his mind personal payments when he is making decisions that could affect his benefactors. It is hogwash.

If the three judges were to find anything of the order of this scenario, Ahern would forever find his name corralled with those of Charlie Haughey and Ray Burke, his only saving grace being the absence of any visible extravagant lifestyle.

The three judges of the tribunal now labour under a heavy burden, even if they're well paid for it. Much of the rest of their report into planning corruption should be relatively straightforward. Minor reputations will be damaged and the culture of zoning for bribes put firmly on the record.

The report into Ahern is of a different magnitude. The three judges – Alan Mahon, Gerard Keys and Mary Faherty – were appointed by Ahern's government for the task at hand, largely because no sitting judge was willing to take it on.

The three are relatively young. While nobody doubts their integrity, it would be reasonable to assume they are ambitious. Mahon, for instance, lobbied unsuccessfully to be elevated from Circuit to High Court status last year. They hold in their hands the reputation of the most popular politician of the modern age, a well-liked former leader of the permanent party of government.

Stout hearts may well be required if their deliberations point towards negative or even devastating findings against Ahern. Either way, a thorough report is the least that can be expected in light of the financial cost and political fallout from the whole affair.

Overt appeals to the emotions from within and outside the court succeeded in turning the Mayo farmer from defendant to victim in a jury's eyes at his manslaughter trial.

17 December 2006

I
n the old courtrooms, in the round hall of the Four Courts, the accused sits on the end of a bench, removed from the general body of the court. The dock as a concept has long been abolished, but the accused in a criminal trial usually sits alone, opposite the jury.

Throughout the Padraig Nally manslaughter trial, his sister Maureen sat beside him. That was highly unusual. A tourist entering Court Three on a casual basis might conclude that the man and woman were both on trial for killing a burglar.

Early on in the trial, a number of Nally's supporters slipped onto the far end of the bench.

Judge Kevin O'Higgins requested that they vacate the seat. Visually, such a vista could be loaded. In the trial of The People vs Padraig Nally, it might be confusing as to where the people's allegiance lay.

During breaks in the proceedings, new friends and complete strangers approached Nally in the Round Hall to wish him well. Each day, when he and his supporters made the short trip across the Liffey to lunch, hands reached out to shake his. Since his release from prison in October, the reception for him in rural circles has been even more voracious. At times over the last few weeks, it appeared as if the system, and not Nally, was on trial.

He had the cut of a man who was enjoying the celebrity, whatever about its provenance. The farmer from a rural outpost in south Co. Mayo, who lived with his parents until their respective demise when he was in his fifties, was now the focus of affection and admiration from people who got to know him, literally, through the barrel of a shotgun.

The bereaved family of the man Nally killed on 14 October 2004 was nowhere to be seen at the trial. The only one of the late John Ward's eleven children to show up was Tom, who was with his father on the day he died. Tom Ward was brought to the court from his place of detention to give evidence against Nally.

The twenty-year-old traveller is serving an eleven-month sentence for theft offences. He told the court that his father's killing has driven him to attempt suicide on a number of occasions. Neither his plight, nor that of his family, has attracted much sympathy. In killing John Ward, as the traveller limped, possibly crawled away, Nally, in the eyes of many, became a victim. First of criminal travellers, then of the system.

THE EVIDENCE:

By October 2004 Padraig Nally was living in fear. ‘The man was demented with fear,' his neighbour Michael Varley told the court. ‘I cried last Sunday after my sister left,' Nally told the guards on the day of the killing. ‘I said that there would be changes when you come back. I had a premonition.'

The rational basis for his fear is highly suspect. Nine months before the killing, in February 2004, a chainsaw was stolen. Drawers in the house were ransacked. Understandably, the sense of violation traumatised him.

Between that time and the killing, he wasn't raided. Now and then, strange cars came by, and he noted down the registration. Others in the rural community did likewise as a precaution.

Three weeks before the fateful day, two travellers in a car stopped and asked Nally directions to the nearby lake. He suspected, quite reasonably, that they were up to no good. But he wasn't raided.

The incidence of burglary in the area wasn't particularly high at a time when the overall incidence had fallen nationally since the 1990s. Nally's neighbour Varley, the father of three small children, told the court that he wasn't afraid. Yet Nally was ‘demented'.

His primitive shotgun was held together with a bicycle tube. He moved it from his bedroom to a shed lest raiders would come in, overpower him and shoot him. The sixty-two-year-old farmer spent long hours at night in the shed with the gun, watching over his stead, waiting for them to come.

‘About an hour I slept last night thinking it was going to happen,' he told guards after the shooting.

He lived alone through the week while his sister was away teaching in Ballina. He didn't have a telephone in the house. He never married. All he had was his farm, that which defined him, and plenty of time alone, long hours in which the imagination can draw a dark veil over all thoughts. There was no evidence in the trial that his sister or friends had any concern for the level of fear he expressed and whether or not it was rooted in reality.

And fear was what Nally said was the impetus for the killing of John Ward, as he limped, or crawled, down the road, fleeing for his life, after a failed attempt to rob the farmer.

Nally had feared attack, yet it was he who shot Ward on sight when he saw the traveller trying to gain entry to his house. Fear drove him to beat Ward with an ash plant, inflicting serious head wounds, to ensure that he himself wasn't killed. And when Ward limped or crawled away, fear that he might return drove Nally after him.

The farmer reloaded, and put another three cartridges in his pocket.

‘It was done with a degree of coolness,' prosecuting counsel Paul O'Higgins told the court. ‘He had taken three cartridges out with him. He was ready for action again.'

Ward was moving down the road when Nally came up behind him. He shot the traveller from a range of not more than five yards. The trajectory of the fatal shot was downwards, which suggests Ward was crouched, or maybe crawling. He may even have begged for his life.

‘I said to myself he wasn't going again,' Nally told the cops afterwards. ‘I've so long been raided, this was going to be the last time.' He was raided once, nine months before, but in his mind the raids may have multiplied and thus justified him in shooting dead a man who resembled the burglar that haunted his waking hours.

Nally didn't take the stand in his manslaughter trial, as was his right. In the original murder trial in Castlebar, he did give evidence. Back then, he had much to gain by personally appealing to a jury. This time the jury members would have been aware of his plight unless they had just arrived from Mars. To give evidence might have been to expose himself to the harsh glare of cross examination, so he declined, as do most defendants in his position.

The respective summing up of the case by O'Higgins and defending counsel Brendan Grehan illustrated the crux of the issue. O'Higgins delved into the law and the facts. Grehan, for the most part, appealed to emotions. In the best traditions of advocacy, he made the most of what he had, telling the jury that ‘trouble came looking for him [Nally]', and ‘a greater contrast between two individuals you will not find than between Mr Nally and John Ward'. And in reference to the one burglary that did occur:

‘When they stole his chainsaw, they stole his peace of mind.'

He also tapped into the debate being conducted beyond the confines of the court. ‘Maybe the law has lagged behind community standards and maybe the impetus should be to change the law.'

Judge O'Higgins also made references to the debate. Charging the jury, he held up a copy of the recent Law Reform Commission document on defending the home. ‘They're thinking about that,' he said, of the commission. ‘And maybe they even are in Leinster House.' But, he told the jury, they were obliged to concentrate only on the facts of the case.