Sanctuary

6

Judge M. Healy was the very opposite of a so-called ‘hanging judge’.

He went so far in the other direction that it had become a running joke. Defence lawyers loved him, and the prosecution loathed and despised him. His motivation was one: notoriety, and two: he’d been a defence lawyer and had been slapped down so often, he was out to make his mark another way.

It got him the headlines he craved and inflated his ego. In the previous six months, he’d had before him:

A violent rapist. Sentence: two years suspended.

A paedophile priest. Sentence: counselling.

A wife beater. Sentence: Six months’ community service.

A drunk driver who killed a young woman: Sentence: rehab.

Outrage, of course, but short-lived and soon forgotten.

Removing a judge in Ireland is like trying to stop the Galway rain. Plus, he was a huge supporter of the government and, with elections due, he was secure.

And smug with it.

Very.

He’d reply, when challenged, ‘The jails are overcrowded. I’m giving these people a second chance.’

And it never cost him a moment’s sleep.

He kept a luxury apartment in the city centre and used it to entertain the growing number of women who sought his expertise. Life was good and he knew it was only a matter of time till he got appointed to the supreme court.

That Friday evening, he finished court early. He was the judge, he could finish whenever he wished. He was anticipating an evening of fine food, some vintage cognac, a call from the government chief whip, and a young lady to blow his trumpet later.

He reached the apartment feeling as if he ruled the world, and rubbed his stomach at what the evening promised. He poured himself a cognac, swirled it round in the glass and let out a deep aah of contentment. When the brandy had warmed his stomach, he went into the bedroom to change into something loose and comfortable.

He nearly dropped his snifter when he saw the noose dangling in the middle of the room, and a voice said, ‘You get to be the hanging judge after all.’