Redemption - Leon Uris [46]
Desmond Fitzpatrick walked back to the table and lifted a thick bundle. “I have similar petitions for twenty clients who are now serving prison terms. None of these prisoners committed murders, but they do not wish to wear prison garb. I wish a ruling that the wearing of prison garb is restricted to murderers exclusively.”
Wham! went the gavel. “See me in my chambers, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“All rise,” cried the tipstaff as Justice Barwell snarled his way from the courtroom. Lawyers for the Crown really wanted to avoid Fitzpatrick in the courtroom. This often made them settle civil matters in his favor out of court.
While the military and political and governmental and industrial powers of England held their own against the Irish, some bright young chaps like Desmond Fitzpatrick were making inroads through the use of the law.
Desmond and Atty entered Jury’s dining room to a round of applause and wended their way through handshakes and congratulations until they were secluded in a backroom booth.
Des made a hasty dispatch of a double Irish whiskey and allowed the rumble of battle to subside. Atty had not realized until she saw with her own eyes what a brilliant man he was. Good Lord, setting up poor Barwell on nuances of a faked papal bull then striking home at the heart of the matter, prison uniforms.
“Des, why is the prison uniform fight so vital?”
“Because we are establishing that the common criminal and the Irishman who fights for Ireland’s independence as a unique nation separate from England are two different men. By granting a republican prisoner-of-war status, the English would recognize that the Irish have a right to challenge their presence here.”
A second drink done in, Des heated up to the subject. “The grand strategy which is emerging is that the revival of the old language, the old sports, the speeches, and the plays defines us as a people different from the British. Our first line of attack is that Irishmen are Irishmen are Irishmen are Irishmen.
“The second flank of the attack is the Irish Party in the House of Commons, which also says that the Irish are a separate people. Meanwhile,” he said with finger pointing skyward, “we attack in the courts. We do this by turning their own law on them.”
“We’re not going to talk them out of Ireland, Des.”
“Yes, but for the time being, our only ammunition consists of words. We have been able to fend them off from destroying us as Irish because of our way with words, deprecating them, laughing at ourselves. But as we know, sticks and stones may break their bones, but words will never hurt them. Soon, Atty, the third line of our attack will have to merge. Military action.”
“The Irish Republican Brotherhood,” she said.
“The Brotherhood. Armed warfare. You see, if we can establish that the Irish are different, then the Irish have a right to their own army. The Brotherhood will either be that army or lead that army.” Desmond turned to the menu in his hand, looked up at Atty, and said, “Nothing looks good on the menu, but let’s eat anyhow. Unless…you let me eat the icing off you. You look magnificent.”
And so it went, two revolutionaries in a curtained booth. Both intense, handsome people with fires in their bellies and courage to waste. One was male, one female, and in that instant they recognized that difference, as England was different from Ireland, in a manner of comparison.
“Shouldn’t we be a couple?” Des asked forthrightly. “That is to say, I detest short women, particularly ones who like to kick big men around. And your good self? I’ve watched you incinerate the chaps as though they had been struck by lightning.”
“Well, I always thought that when the right lad came along there had to be more to it than my height,” she said.
“We have much more than height,” Des said. “We have Ireland.”
“Good Lord, you are such a romantic, Des. What girl wouldn’t tremble at your words.”
Des took her hand softly. “I didn’t think you cared for sentimental shenanigans.”
“I suppose I don’t,” she agreed. “I once knew a romantic Irishman, but