Between the Lines / By Peter McDermott
William Geary was a 29-year-old policeman when he was dismissed from the force, accused of taking a bribe. He said he was innocent of the charge and vowed that he would clear his name. Finally, in 1999, he did just that and received monetary compensation. Geary, though, was already 100 years old when that vindication came.
The remarkable story of an ex-cop's 71-year campaign to clear his name is told again in Brendon K. Colvert's "On My Honor" (published by Mercier Press, and distributed in the U.S. by Dufour Editions).
The backdrop was post-Civil War Ireland, in which certain places — such as County Clare, where the rising young superintendent was stationed — remained hotbeds of anti-government militarism. The unarmed officers of the Garda Siochana, particularly the more effective ones, risked their lives in the battle for hearts and minds. Instead of being shot by the government's enemies, however, Geary received a life sentence of humiliation and shame. He was set up in a sting, and the insecure young men who ran Ireland's nascent police force — all close lieutenants of the dead Michael Collins — discarded him without a proper hearing. Colvert invokes the case of Capt. Alfred Dreyfus, the Jewish French army officer who was sentenced to life imprisonment on Devil's Island and, 12 years later in 1906, exonerated, promoted and awarded the Legion of Honor. Geary's case, of course, can't quite compare with the Dreyfus affair, which ignited a raging culture war between left and right in France; but still, it's a very human story that is also a fascinating footnote to 1920s Ireland.
When I met Geary in his Bayside, Queens, apartment he sounded as if he'd never spent a day outside of his native County Limerick, even though he hadn't been there in 70 years.
He moved about with relative ease and spoke articulately. His main concession to age was his poor hearing. He still enjoyed his pipe, but on doctors' orders had given up his post-dinner glasses of vodka in favor of wine.
Conor Brady, the Irish Times editor who'd championed his case in the 1990s, called from Dublin to congratulate him, and then, as I'd arranged, Newsday's photographer arrived. The centenarian reveled in the attention and the glory of it all.
The problem for me was that the late Dennis Duggan had also tracked down Geary, and his column about him appeared in Newsday the day I submitted mine. When I sold my piece to the Examiner, the Cork-based daily, Newsday allowed me use the photographer's images, including a copy he'd made of a vintage photo of the young Geary in his Garda uniform.
Maurice "Mickey" Carroll once told me: "Reporters aren't important: you go to things; you see things." (Among the things Carroll saw was Oswald being shot in the basement of Dallas police headquarters.) You also get to hear people tell their stories, and they're almost always interesting, but having a 100-year-old man recount the highs and lows of his life and see him enjoy his ultimate triumph was pretty special.
William Geary, who was born on Feb. 28, 1899, died on Oct. 14, 2004. He never went back to Ireland. "I don't want to press my luck," he said.
Noir at NYU
Mark your calendars, mystery fans!
Saturday, Sept. 24.
Details are still sketchy, but on that day, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Glucksman Ireland House, NYU, will host a symposium on Irish noir, the new wave of writing by John Connolly, Tana French, Ken Bruen and many others.
It's expected that some of the authors will be there in person, including Connolly, whose first novel was published in 1999, and has been followed by one a year since. The Dubliner's professional success paved the way for the others and, as mentioned here before, he's regarded as a mentor by several of them.
The Mysterious Bookstore, on Warren Street in Downtown Manhattan, will host a reception on the eve on the event.
