Brendan Patrick O'Donnell winked and smiled at reporters crammed into Loughrea
District Court. He was making weekly remand appearances in courts scattered around the west and had started to recognise some of the journalists following the hearings, regularly calling out to them.
"Seamus, Seamus, talk to me, Seamus," he pleaded.
Sometimes he would simply sit giggling to himself or chatting to his guards.
On this particular morning, with bright sunlight streaming into the high-
ceilinged courthouse, O'Donnell was sitting quietly, handcuffed to a uniformed garda who sat beside him on the raised seats at the side of the court.
As he had arrived, he had revealed his chest to reporters, pleading with them to look at scars from alleged assaults in jail. But by now he had subsided. The courtroom, overlooked by a packed public gallery, was peaceful as we awaited the entrance of Judge James O'Sullivan.
Suddenly, O'Donnell smashed his right fist into the face of the grey-haired garda. Prison guards, uniformed gardai and detectives descended from all quarters as O'Donnell appeared to overwhelm his guard. "You won't butcher me, you bastard," he screamed, his punches raining down. As the melee continued, his hands were cuffed behind his back. When burly officers dragged him down the steps into the main court area, the purple-faced O'Donnell yelled: "That's right
. . . lots of pressure on my wrist . . . snap it, you fucking scum. I'll die fighting because I'm fucking innocent."
One detective was kicked in the groin, while his colleagues clung on furiously to O'Donnell's neck. Reporters stared incredulously as the wiry 20-
year-old displayed manic strength, brushing off wellbuilt gardai.
Eventually, he was carried to a bench in the well of the court, kicking, biting, spitting and shouting as he went. He hissed and tried to speak as his head was pressed on the bench before him.
Judge O'Sullivan walked into a chaotic scene. Supt John Carey informed him of the gross disorder caused by O'Donnell only minutes before.
When O'Donnell was allowed to lift his head, he told Judge O'Sullivan he was being abused in prison. The judge replied curtly: "I see that the garda beside you is bleeding."
After a brief hearing, O'Donnell was carried out of court head first.
Extraordinary scenes they were, but they were typical of O'Donnell's unpredictability and the violent mood swings to which he was susceptible.
During his 15 or so court appearances in the west, the defendant had protested his innocence, told reporters of hunger-strikes, sought jail transfers and psychiatric help, and disrupted hearings with gibberish.
Often these were clearly attention-seeking measures, a recurring theme from his painful childhood.
With a forlorn look in his eyes, he sat incongruously at Birr District Court among youngsters the same age who had been "found on".
Their meagre fines for after-hours drinking would be the subject of humour in years to come. O'Donnell, the boy who cried on his mother's grave, had just killed three people.
He would never drink with friends, get married, have children, or walk as a free man in the countryside he grew up in.
In his 20th year, his life was effectively over.