FOR ANYONE lucky not to have seen the inside of a Garda interrogation room, Court Two promised much yesterday. What is it like in those hot, dingy chambers when suspects and gardaí turn irritable?
Despite the fact that an audio-visual record is mandatory in these cases, an officer is obliged to take a note in longhand, which is the statement version eventually read to the jury by a barrister; a tedious process for all concerned and one, naturally, from which all the life and emotion have been drained.
Last year, Sharon Collins refused to sign such a statement, claiming that it was not a proper record. So for trial purposes, her senior counsel, Paul O'Higgins, demanded that the jury be given the unexpurgated, audio-visual version.
In the morning the screens were activated to reveal an overhead view of a tiny room with grey vertical blinds, an officer taking notes at one tiny desk, a second officer - legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles - alongside another tiny desk, and in the middle of the room, the suspect, Sharon Collins, just returned from a skiing holiday, we heard, which explained the leg brace.
Everyone stared at the screens, which were all picture and no sound. After a few awkward moments, it was agreed to try again after lunch, when the sound was of such an unintelligible kind that Mr Justice Murphy called a halt and the court reverted to traditional methods.
But where it failed to deliver on Garda interrogation visuals, it did offer a fascinating workshop on double proxy marriages - ie the kind of nuptials where neither party has to show up. Sharon Collins's problem was that her partner, PJ Howard, didn't want to get married, since he had received advice that remarrying would "leave his assets open", and she did. "I wanted to belong," she told detectives.
So she decided to marry PJ anyway, while neglecting to tell him. Much of yesterday was taken up with e-mails to proxylove at proxymarriages.com, which held out the promise of a Mexican proxy marriage. This, she understood, when accompanied by a legal device called an apostille - a certification system for overseas officials unable to authenticate certain documents first-hand - plus $1,290, would give her the sense of belonging she needed, and all within five to seven working days.
Clearly, the apostille was very important to her; it suggested that the union would be recognised in Ireland. There was even an e-mail from PJ - who never used a computer, she later admitted - urging the folk at proxy marriages to move it along, saying that Sharon needed to renew her passport. When the process seemed to be lagging, she told Leonard at proxymarriages that she had contacted the Mexican embassy, who told her they knew nothing about proxy marriages, which made her wonder about certain legal aspects, including whether it would be recognised for inheritance purposes. The Irish embassy in Mexico was also perplexed when asked if such a marriage would be recognised in Ireland.
"We have never come across a proxy marriage in Mexico and doubt strongly that it would be possible," they replied. But proxymarriages.com said it processed 25 to 50 marriages a year for Irish couples "and never had anyone request an apostille".
In any event, Ms Collins never got the apostille. But her Mexican proxy marriage certificate was useful for something; remarkably, it enabled her to obtain an Irish passport in the name of Sharon Howard. "I just wanted to say to PJ, I've taken your name", Ms Collins explained.
By her account, PJ discovered he was married again when she told him in April 2007, 18 months after the Mexican arrangement that made them Mr and Mrs. Detectives insisted, however, that when they informed him of it during their investigation, "it came as a great shock to him".