Gangster (26 page)

Christmas came but didn’t pass without incident. Gilligan wrote directly to Bowden’s and Warren’s families from Highdown Prison in Surrey. He was transferred to this prison after he attacked a prison officer. Once again, he set off alarm bells. The letters were enquiring into the recipients’ health. But there were secret messages in the new letters. In one letter, he offered an olive branch to Bowden. He wrote that he believed the gardaí had forced him to make a statement. The message was simple: all would be forgiven if he retracted his evidence. The ruse did not work.

Gilligan reached the end of the road on 3 February when the High Court in London dismissed his habeas corpus application. Lord Justice Brown, sitting with Justice Klevan, threw out his application. It was not merely misconceived, they said, but was an abuse of process. Gilligan was half expecting as much and was not present at the 20-minute hearing in London. He was preparing to fly home. As soon as the judgment was delivered, the gangster was brought from Highdown Prison to the RAF base at Northolt. He was peculiarly silent and said not a single word during the trip. He arrived there at 2.30 p.m. when Detective Sergeant John Warren of Scotland Yard handed him over to O’Loughlin. His prisoner was overcome by sickness, brought about by the drama. He was flown home in an Air Corps CASA jet which arrived at Baldonnel’s Casement Aerodrome at 4.35 p.m.

The media were everywhere. Photographers and television camera crews jostled for the best positions. It was a circus. When Gilligan finally descended from the aircraft, O’Loughlin arrested him. Hickey, never a man to court publicity, made a point of staying away.

Gilligan, the big, bad bogeyman of the Irish underworld, was seen in his true colours. He wore a green and yellow prison uniform with a prison insignia stamped on the back. He cowered, covering his face with his hands to shield himself from the cameras. Old habits die hard.

A convoy of military and police vehicles brought him to the Special Criminal Court on Green Street in central Dublin. A helicopter hovered above the court building. Sniffer dogs and armed soldiers were everywhere. The convoy drove straight past the photographers and camera crews and into a yard adjacent to the Special Criminal Court building. The doors slammed behind the vehicle as Gilligan stepped out of the van and was taken into the court. For the accused, the prospect of having to face the court was too much. He had spent years fighting extradition in the beleaguered hope that the case would somehow fall apart, that Bowden would be exposed as a liar, that Warren would refuse to testify out of fear and that any evidence from Dunne could be proved unreliable. In pursuit of these objectives he had done all he could. Now the game was over.

He stood in the dock. He answered ‘yes’ when asked by the court registrar if he was John Gilligan. Justice Richard Johnson, the presiding judge, asked if he was legally represented and he replied: ‘No, your honour, I am representing myself.’

The hearing lasted no longer than 25 minutes. When it concluded, Gilligan asked: ‘Bail would be out of the question, wouldn’t it?’

Gilligan adopted the same policy of fighting the gardaí every step of the way from his cell in Portlaoise Prison. If the prosecution thought Gilligan would stop making legal challenges, they were wrong. And so started another series of legal manoeuvres aimed at stopping his trial from going ahead.

He made a series of pre-trial submissions in April. Because he was not legally represented, he was asked to stand at the bench normally used by junior defence barristers. Gilligan, in bold fashion, made his way from the dock to the lawyers’ bench, where in gruff language he denied making threats against people prepared to give evidence against him. He had not put a ‘price’ on their heads. ‘The only thing I ordered was a cappuccino,’ he said.

He spoke for 50 minutes and applied to have the charge of murder dealt with separately from other drugs and firearms charges. It was a clever move designed to break down the credibility of the supergrass. Speaking without the grace of a barrister, he told the three judges that he was objecting to the court because it was not independent or impartial, and he submitted documents from a United Nations Human Rights Commission hearing. But after doing so well, at the end of the submissions, he thought aloud: ‘I don’t do this every day. I am not too sure of myself. I thought I’d be able to handle this case. I certainly can’t handle it. I’d like to apply for legal aid. I haven’t a penny.’

The IRA, meanwhile, was under pressure to move against the dealers—largely because the dealers were importing military weapons into Dublin, and these were being sold to loyalist terrorists and dissident republicans. Various people in the republican organisation were charged with investigating this trade. Within a short space of time, the trail led back to the Netherlands and Spain. John Cunningham, an old friend of Gilligan’s, was funnelling a steady stream of weapons to Ireland from The Hague. But the inquiry implicated Traynor, who they found living between holiday apartments on the Costa del Sol. A team of republicans travelled to the area at once and started monitoring Traynor’s activities. Then by chance, they stumbled upon Geraldine and Tracy Gilligan who were travelling to a holiday villa in Alicante. They followed them everywhere, photographed them and logged their movements. They even watched and photographed Geraldine sunbathing by the pool. Traynor’s every move was watched. When he went into bars, those drinking beside him were IRA intelligence officers monitoring him. Peter Mitchell was also monitored. Then, after much debate, they decided to execute Traynor on the strict condition the shooting would not be claimed. ‘Its purpose was to send a message to drug dealers that they could run but they couldn’t hide,’ said one of the team involved.

The plan was to shoot Traynor dead in the hope that the media would attribute his murder to a rival criminal gang. A trained assassin was flown to Spain, and through another contact a suitable weapon was acquired for the hit. Like all IRA operations, there would be other republicans in the vicinity to assist the killer’s escape and dispose of the weapon.

Everything was going according to plan until Traynor failed to show at a prearranged meeting. They waited and, fearing that one of their number might be stopped by the police, they got rid of the weapon. Traynor eventually did resurface, but it was too late. He had escaped within an inch of his life and didn’t even know it.

Back in Ireland, the judge dismissed Gilligan’s application and remanded him to Portlaoise until 22 May. It was in Portlaoise that he met the man he would hire as his solicitor, Joe Rice. The Belfast solicitor was working for Sean ‘Bap’ Hughes, an INLA suspect facing charges for murdering a garda. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he would drive from Belfast to Portlaoise to discuss the pending trial with Hughes. This was of great interest to Gilligan, who was struck by his dedication. One morning, while Rice was briefing Hughes, Gilligan interrupted the meeting.

‘Jesus, lads, you’re very committed.’

Rice, an amicable man, said he’d do the same for any client.

Using this remark as a starting point to introduce himself, Gilligan asked if Rice would be interested in reading his book of evidence. The next week, Gilligan asked him to take his case.

The solicitor agreed, but on one condition: ‘John, it must be on legal aid.’ He formally came on board on 22 May when this was granted.

On 26 June, on the third anniversary of Guerin’s death, he was told his legal attempts to have the murder charge dealt with separately from drugs and firearm charges had failed. But he did get access to transcripts of the Ward and Meehan trials.

Gilligan’s trial was scheduled to begin on 3 October, but as with everything in his life, there had to be a challenge. In July, he succeeded in having two of the three judges removed from the case. Justice Kevin O’Higgins of the High Court and Judge Matthew Deery of the Circuit Court discharged themselves, leaving William Hamill of the District Court.

The month of September brought more challenges. The opening of the trial on 3 October brought even more when Gilligan sacked his counsel, forcing the adjournment of the trial for a week. Justice Diarmuid O’Donovan, who was appointed to hear the case, warned him that he should not dismiss any more counsel as it would not be tolerated.

The week’s adjournment was given only to allow Eugene Grant QC and Dr Michael Forde SC, his new lawyers, time to prepare a proper defence. Further applications were refused because the trial date had been fixed since February. The judge also noted that Gilligan’s solicitor and his junior counsel, Peter Irvine, had been with the case since an early stage. A week later, Rice read letters to the court from Grant and Irvine stating that the barristers could not properly prepare a defence in the time allotted by the court. Left with no other option, the court adjourned the trial to 21 November.

Gilligan thought this was a great accomplishment. He was fighting various cases and had taken a challenge to the Supreme Court appealing another decision by the High Court, which had refused him the right to trial by jury. The Supreme Court reserved judgement. In this whirlwind of legal challenges, on 20 October he took yet another step, seeking secret Garda reports on a series of telephone conversations in 1996 between a Garda detective and the Attorney General, Michael McDowell. When this proved a futile exercise, conscious that Bowden and the others were most likely worried about testifying, Gilligan decided to resort to his old tactics. He granted an interview to the Sunday Business Post. ‘We will find the truth through the families—wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. They will all be called to give evidence,’ he declared. When the interview was published, his senior counsel withdrew their services at once.

News of the resignations was the last straw for the court. Since Gilligan was charged, he had lost some of the most gifted counsel in the State. The judges saw through his decision to talk to the press and proclaimed the trial would still go ahead on 21 November. But it didn’t and was adjourned for the third time to 4 December. Rice’s solid legal advice bought Gilligan the extra time. The solicitor told the court that he had approached 33 senior counsel, but none were available to begin the trial.

‘My client has instructed me that he would like the case to start as soon as possible. He is frustrated,’ Rice said.

Justice O’Donovan heard him loud and clear, but warned in no uncertain terms that this would be the last adjournment. ‘No excuses whatsoever will be entertained by the court for an adjournment of this trial. If counsel decide to opt out, this case will still go on, and Mr Gilligan may well have to defend himself,’ he said.

Gilligan’s trial was an anti-climax of giant proportions. After nearly four years of legal manoeuvres to stop it from going ahead, when it did finally commence at 11.35 a.m. on 4 December 2000, the public gallery was barely occupied. Only a handful of journalists showed up. There was no packed gallery, no sightseers seeking a glimpse of the great gangster of the Irish underworld. There were just the police, the solicitors, their barristers and the prison officers.

After the court clerk read out the charges, Gilligan sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back and looked above his head, smiling, gnawing at his jaw as if he were chewing gum.

The dock where the accused sits is raised about five feet above the ground. From this position, Gilligan could look down into the courtroom itself where those with a professional interest in the case took their seats. Sitting directly opposite him, across the room on what looks like a small balcony, sat his three trial judges—Joseph Mathews, Diarmuid O’Donovan and William Hamill. Judge Mathews was noticeably younger-looking than his colleagues and spoke, when he did, with an authoritative voice. Judge O’Donovan was slightly smaller in stature. He smiled constantly and often leaned back into his chair to ponder, if not to avoid the harsh spotlight that illuminated his seated position. Judge Hamill wore no wig, only a gown, which gave him a more casual appearance than that of his colleagues.

The opposing legal teams were seated below, facing in the direction of the three judges. To Gilligan’s right sat the prosecution team headed by Peter Charleton. On his feet, he stood over six feet tall, but he leaned slightly to one side when he addressed the court. His height coupled with his voice allowed him to assert his authority without having to raise his voice. Beside him sat Eamonn Leahy, a giant of a man whose robust stature almost filled two spaces on the narrow wooden bench. Alongside him sat Tom O’Connell, another barrister.

Gilligan’s defence contingent sat to the right on the same wooden bench. Michael O’Higgins headed the defence. He was a barrister who had his feet planted firmly on the ground, having worked as a journalist writing on justice and social issues before deciding to study law. Of his many articles, his interviews with Martin Cahill stood out as the best. It was said that Cahill had given him great insight into the underworld because O’Higgins showed no airs, graces or pomposity. Although middle-aged, he possessed a youthful expression that belied a razor-sharp wit. When he spoke, his face became animated.

To his left sat Terence McDonald, a rather stern-looking barrister who practised at the Belfast bar. Always mindful to look sombre in court, in truth, he smiled and exchanged courtesies with just about everyone. Peter Irvine, a barrister, sat beside him. Rice sat on a wooden bench immediately behind the defence team. Tony Hickey, who arrived in full uniform, sat on the same bench, but at the opposite end.

And so the trial of John Gilligan began.

No sooner had Charleton started delivering his opening submission than O’Higgins jumped to his feet, objecting to any possibility that Bowden, Warren and Dunne take the stand. Charleton threw his eyes to heaven. O’Higgins proclaimed that the witness protection programme was tainted. The court, he said, had a duty to ensure its own process was not damaged. This, he said, was an essential part of justice, as in the moisture that hangs in the air.

And with that began another legal argument that effectively delayed the trial for two days. Bowden, O’Higgins asserted, was so impugned that he couldn’t give any credible evidence because he was a proven liar. The barrister, with one foot placed on the wooden bench, read from the verdict delivered in Meehan’s case. This found that Bowden had lied. ‘Does it follow that he’ll lie again?’ asked Judge O’Donovan. O’Higgins suggested he would. They retired till the next day when the court discounted the submission.