WHO WOULD have thought the man would have so much drama in him?
There he stood, the former Taoiseach, Mr Albert Reynolds, in the witness box at the Royal Courts of Justice in London yesterday, a Sunday Times (Irish edition) in one hand, and a Sunday Times (British edition) in the other, both dated November 20th, 1994.
"The same paper," he noted, with "the truth here" - indicating the Irish edition - "and lies here" - indicating the British edition. It perplexed him that in Edinburgh, Durham, Oxford, Cambridge, Surrey and Aberdeen, wherever universities are known "all over this country, (Britain)" they think him "a liar, a liar, a liar
On his lecture tours they know he had been referred to as "some kind of devil". What were they to think? What was he to think, or feel, going among them?
His reputation and his integrity had been impugned, his family distressed. And he knew how they felt, and they knew how he felt, though he has hardly discussed it with them since the event. He cannot.
He gestured with his hands, pursed his forehead, raised and lowered his voice, caught his breath at intense moments.
There was anger at a reputation sullied, hurt at the effects on his family, reasoned explanation of the passage of his fall, even humour about two expletives deleted.
He allowed himself a chuckle as he told Mr Justice French he didn't intend repeating to the court the two expletives he uttered, according to the Sunday Times (Irish edition), on finding the Fitssimons memo in his office that November night, when reputations began to roll.
If it pleased the court, he would repeat what he had said last Tuesday about that - that he had hit the roof. "...the ceiling", corrected Mr Justice French. "... the ceiling", agreed Mr Reynolds. Mr Justice French may occasionally give the impression of somewhat somnolent detachment but it is merely an impression. Beneath the measured, often mannered demeanour - such as would not be out of place in an old Ealing movie - lies an intellect as intent as ... well, an outraged former Taoiseach.
Again yesterday, Mr Reynolds's wife Kathleen and daughter Miriam sat in silent, occasionally suffering, support throughout. They watched from the well of the court with the judge high above in his bench, the seven good men and five true women of the jury above to their left and, ascending behind, a phalanx of counsel.
Mr Reynolds stood high in the witness box, the media crunched into two small benches at his feet, while they, like hungry sheep, looked up, seeking further drama, from the first Irish leader since Parnell to defend his reputation against Times Newspapers.
