Private Dublin

Chapter 88

“This man is deranged and has been harassing me,” Finch told the onlookers. “He’s wanted for questioning in relation to two murders.”

“Murders your associate committed,” I fired back as loudly as I could.

I saw security guards pushing their way toward us and was conscious I didn’t have much time.

“My name is Jack Morgan, and last week my colleague and I were shot at after a screening at the Motion Picture Academy in Los Angeles. Some of you might have seen it on the news,” I said as loudly as possible, so people at the very back of the crowd could hear me. I was pleased to see some already had their phones out.

“Don’t listen to him,” Finch countered, but his tone betrayed uncertainty and a degree of weakness.

“The gunman was an employee of Mr. Finch’s, a man called Sam Farrell, one of the victims in yesterday’s shooting.”

I saw the security guards slow their advance and eye Lawrence Finch sidelong, willing to listen to the rest of my tale. There were police at the scene now too, making their way through the rear of the crowd.

“I followed Sam Farrell to Ireland,” I said, “where I discovered his connection to Mr. Finch.”

More people were filming me now, including a couple of journalists with press badges, who had turned their DSLR cameras and shotgun microphones in my direction.

“He’s lying,” Finch yelled. ‘The man’s making this up — can’t you tell?”

“Then you can sue me for libel,” I responded quickly. “Except truth is a defense and I have proof of everything I’m saying. I can prove your connection to another corrupt Garda officer called Conor Roche, who tried to frame me for last night’s murders. I can prove the group you lead, which was behind murders in Rome and Monaco, was responsible for the firebombing of the Richmond Refugee Centre here in Dublin. I can also prove you’ve been financing these illegal activities by rigging horse races after intimidating local owners, trainers and breeders to collude in fixing results.”

There was a collective intake of breath. While the other crimes were horrific, this was relevant and immediate to many of the racegoers around Lawrence Finch, some of whom would have torn up betting slips for races he’d rigged. After a short pause there were mutterings and hisses. Then came the boos. Finch didn’t know how to react, which was precisely what I’d wanted. I knew being accused of race-fixing on the day of the biggest fixture in Ireland’s calendar would cause a major scandal — something that would be anathema to a self-made man like Finch.

“In fact,” I continued, “by following your syndicate, Mr. Finch, and placing the same bets as they did, I’ve been able to turn half a million dollars into twenty-five million in a single day.”

Lawrence Finch realized the severity of his predicament at the very moment the Gardai appeared at his shoulder. The crowd had turned sullen and hostile, calling him a liar and cheat and other words I couldn’t quite make out, though the angry tone in which they were spoken was clear enough.

“He’s lying,” Finch protested again, but his denials sounded thin and pathetic now. “He’s crazy.”

“I don’t think these good folks are happy with you,” I told him. “Many of them will have lost money on the results you fixed. Most of them will have seen the fire you set in the heart of Dublin and despise you for bringing hatred to this beautiful, friendly city.”

My words were on point. The whole crowd seemed to bristle. Desperate by now, Finch tried to flee under the railing of the parade ring, but I grabbed him and pushed him back toward the Gardai.

“And if the authorities deem it legal for me to keep today’s winnings, I will be donating the money to the refugee center, to help with its rebuild, and offering financial support to the affected families, with any remaining balance going to anti-racism charities.”

Lawrence Finch fixed me with a defiant glare as one of the police officers took his wrists and put the first manacle on him.

“I’ll be out before sundown,” he said.

“Not this time,” I replied. “All the evidence we’ve gathered has gone to the American and Irish governments. People with real power, well above your grubby ability to corrupt and influence. People who will see justice done impartially.”

I watched the defiance ebb away and his spirit crumble.

“I keep my promises, Mr. Finch,” I told him. “You and your rotten organization are finished.”