Abigail Rieley - The Devil in the Red Dress

THE DEVIL IN THE RED DRESS

ABIGAIL RIELEY

To Michael,

With all my love, always.

CHAPTER 1:

THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS

The way she told it, it was kismet.

I remember noticing P.J. when I was a little girl, perhaps nine or ten. He was a grown man. I didnt know him until we started going out together but the memory of seeing him where he worked stayed in my mind. Then when I saw him walking into my shop eight and a half years ago, after seeing him out a few nights previously. I knew he was coming for me. It was almost like a premonition. It felt like I was expecting him even though I wasnt until he walked in.

When P.J. Howard walked into Sharon Collins shop, she believed he was going to change her life. The man she had noticed as a little girl, when he had only started to accumulate his wealth, was interested in her. His love promised access to the lifestyle she craved, not to mention security for her and her sons. She was determined to hook Howard for herself and luck was on her side. He was grieving, and she was available.

Collins painted it like a fairy tale, begging James Hamilton, the Director of Public Prosecutions, to drop the charges against her. She had met Howard in November 1998 and they had been together since she had moved into his house with her two sons for Christmas. But Collins, to all accounts, was more like the wicked stepmother than a defenceless ingnue, for she had been charged with plotting to kill the man who had made the fairy tale possible, and murder his two sons as well. Cinderella had become a femme fatale.

Over eight weeks in the summer of 2008, the convoluted tale of Sharon Collins and Essam Eid unfolded in front of a jury in Court Two at the Central Criminal Court in Dublin. As the trial wore on the number of people who came to catch a glimpse of the woman who became known as the devil in the red dress grew steadily. They whispered at the back of the courtroom as they peered at the long wooden bench facing the jury box, where every day for 32 days the defendants took their seats.

Isnt she a pretty little thing?

Is that the poker dealer?

As the weeks went on and the salacious details emerged, their numbers grew. Many of them were the same people who came to watch every high profile murder trial. The anorak wearing pensioners, who always brought a plentiful supply of sweets, had their own seats staked out. They had turned up to watch the main event and, as the weeks wore on, they werent disappointed.

Collins wasnt interested in them at all. Every morning she arrived in court dressed in a smart black trouser suit with a white top visible underneath, her blonde hair cut in business-like layers to just above the collar and her makeup understated, barely there. This was a different woman from the curvy pint-sized bombshell who turned up for her first court appearance in a short skirt and heels. She had lost a lot of weight since her arrest in February 2007; the angles in her face were now clearly visible, especially with the shorter hair. She now looked slightly harder, sharper; perhaps unsurprisingly as she was so close to losing everything she had spent so long building up.

Every morning her sons would wait for her in the lobby of the Four Courts where she would arrive after her daily consultation with her legal team. David, her youngest son, would arrive first. He would be joined by his older brother Gary, sombrely suited like his brother but looking more like his mother. When she joined them there was time for a few moments shielded from prying eyes in the partial shadow of a curved leather bench tucked beneath a stairwell. Sometimes they were joined by the boys father, Noel Collins, who was a discreet presence throughout the trial to lend his support to his ex-wife and the two sons they shared. There were rarely other supporters though. She was involved in the kind of scandal that rarely touched the civilised middle class lives of her peers.

Just before 11a.m she would head into court to check that Essam Eid, her co-defendant who had offered himself as a hitman on the internet, had already taken his seat and every morning she would build a defensive fort of stationery in front of her. First would come the neat black folder that she came in clutching, which held the original statements from the days witnesses. Then out came the pens, neatly placed within easy reach. Then the Polo mints and gum on which she and her sons constantly chewed as they listened to the evidence. On top of folder she would precisely place a large yellow Post-It pad. As the day progressed, she would write a steady stream of notes on the yellow pad, every now and then tearing off the top few pages to be folded over and given to David to pass on to her legal team. By the end of the day the back of the bench in front of her junior counsel would be feathered with over-lapping pages.

Collins never looked at her co-defendant during the trial but stared straight ahead at the jury when not writing, the calm and collected mask slipping every now and then to allow her expressive face to telegraph her reaction to each piece of evidence that stacked the prosecution case higher against her. Every so often, when the accusations got too close, she would lean towards one of her sons and whisper in a manner both intimate and urgent, staring earnestly into their eyes. When particularly damning evidence appeared she would lean towards them to share a private joke. But for the most part, despite the evidence against her, she gave the impression of attending the trial merely for politeness sake, rarely showing any doubt in the security of her position.

At the far end of the bench her co-accused Eid joked with the prison guards. He had been in custody for almost two years, but he looked as if he was on holiday. Even in his never-varied casual outfit of black Nike jacket and jeans, he looked like a good fit for the role in which he was cast. His slightly receding hair was greying around the temples and his thick grey moustache had lost its battle to middle age. His sallow skin marked him out as an exotic character in the midst of the blue uniforms of the garda and prison warders, and the black gowns of the barristers. His appearance was so obviously not Irish that at the time of his arrest, garda had difficulty filling a lineup with a suitably cosmopolitan selection. If he felt pressured by his predicament he rarely showed it. He often chuckled to himself at the more bizarre pieces of evidence and smiled broadly as he watched the trial as if it was entertainment for him alone. He looked genuinely interested to see how things turned out.

The drama played out over eight weeks to the delight and fascination of the spectators, both media and general public. Collins fought her corner hard and refused to concede a single point to the prosecution. Every so often the tension would show in the courtroom by someone who would punctuate proceedings with much huffing and slapping of furniture.

The verdict finally came on 9 July 2008 on the 32nd day of the trial. After so many weeks of evidence it was perhaps not surprising that the jury took their time. They had asked frequent questions, asked to see numerous pieces of evidence and took multiple cigarette breaks when the tension got too much. In the end it took three days with two nights in a hotel. While the press settled in for the wait the tension was evident in both accused for the first time even though they both kept up a pretence at being relaxed. While Eid joked with the prison guards it was noticeable he was disappearing for more frequent cigarette breaks. By the second day he was spending most of his time in the cells that are hidden beneath the Four Courts, away from the curious eyes of press and public. Collins bobbed in and out of court like a restless bird, her supporters at her side. She spent most of the time sitting on the benches that are placed at regular intervals around the curved walls of the Round Hall or sitting under a stairwell. Everyone could see that her face was pale beneath her makeup and her eyes were hollowed by dark shadows. As the trial came to a close, she looked her age and the glamorous mask had finally slipped. As the hours slipped by, the tension slipped into tedium.