Teens accused of involvement in machine gun robbery released over lack of space
One of the boys – released on Saturday night – failed to attend his next court hearing on Monday, and a warrant has been issued for his arrest.
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The 17-year-old boys and two men had been refused bail on Saturday after a judge heard a 60-year-old man was "savagely" beaten in front of his terrified family when machine gun-armed intruders forced entry into their home in Shankill, Co Dublin, on June 11th.
All four were charged with aggravated burglary and unlawful possession of a Czechoslovakian-made 9mm Skorpian machine pistol.
Following their District Court appearance on Saturday, it transpired that the Oberstown Detention Campus in Dublin had no room to take the two youths despite the judge's decision.
Habeas corpus
Gardaí held them until their lawyers launched habeas corpus, a legal mechanism to challenge unlawful detention, in the High Court on Saturday night. That led to a temporary "workaround" order releasing the pair on bail and subject to "house arrest" until their appearance on Monday at the Children's Court.
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The boys, from north Dublin, cannot be named because they are minors.
On Monday, Judge Brendan Toale ordered gardaí to arrest the one who did not turn up.
Noting there were still no remand beds available in the detention centre, he had to grant the co-accused teenager bail pending directions from the Director of Public Prosecutions·
Judge Brendan Toale highlighted how the lack of room in the detention facility had become a constant problem for the courts.
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"This whole situation arises where the lack of place in Oberstown is an ongoing difficulty; it has been going on certainly for the last six months at a high level when, more often than not, there are no beds available, and where there was a refusal of bail," he stated before he was forced to send the boy home.
The teenager, who has yet to enter a plea, was accompanied to court by relatives and ordered to obey a 10pm – 6am curfew at his home, stay contactable by phone, remain out of the Shankill area, not contact witnesses, surrender his passport within 48 hours and not apply for alternative travel documents.
He will appear again in four weeks.
Adult co-defendants Sean Doran, 26, of Earl Street South and widower Gregory Dunne, 60, from Oliver Bond Flats, both in Dublin 8, were remanded in prison custody on Saturday and are back in court later this week.
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Dublin District Court heard on Saturday that the Garda ballistics section stated the gun was "capable of full automatic firing", and the burglary and gun charges can carry possible life sentences.
Mr Doran has an additional charge of assault causing harm to the 60-year-old homeowner, who suffered lacerations from blows to his face and head.
Bail objections
In bail objections, evidence stated that he, his wife, aged 63, and their 35-year-old son were in "grave fear" they would not remain in the house and had since moved to a hotel.
At the bail hearings, Garda witnesses stated the four acted in joint enterprise. It was alleged that the two masked teens in puffer jackets travelled to the house on an e-bike while Mr Doran came in a 2007-reg Honda Accord car driven by Mr Dunne.
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The teenager who showed up to court on Monday was said to have had a black face cover and approached the house. It was claimed that he removed the gun from the front of his trousers and "pointed" it at the family through the window.
The proceedings were informed that the boys allegedly "forced" their way in the front door while Mr Doran came through a rear entrance before the homeowner was "savagely" beaten.
Detective Garda Michael Murphy claimed Mr Doran delivered punches and kicks to the man's head and face, and there were bloodstains on the accused's footwear.
Detective Garda Darragh Phelan said the second teenager used boxer shorts as a balaclava and left with the gun on an e-bike.
A civilian witness was said to have observed him discarding it before he allegedly drove onto the M50, where he crashed between Junction 12 and 13 and was arrested.
Ireland
Anthony Nash asked Garda if she knows who he is wh...
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That teenager failed to turn up for his hearing on Monday.
The bail hearings were also informed that gardaí responded to a call from the couple's son, who was in a state of distress, saying, "A number of males were attacking his parents' home, and one had a gun; the male pointed the gun and directed it them".
Gardaí testified that a commotion could be heard over the phone line.
The car was stopped close nearby and armed support officers arrived and arrested three of the defendants.
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The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
‘50 years of anger and pain': Miami Sounband's Des Lee when Irish terrorists colluded with MI5 to massacre Ireland's biggest band
'It was absolutely despicable,' says Des Lee, his voice trembling with emotion, 'to think that those people who were supposed to be protecting us had planned our murder …' I've never heard a story as astonishing as Lee's. His memoir, My Saxophone Saved My Life, recounts the events of half a century ago, in which his much-loved pop group, the Miami Showband, were ambushed by loyalist paramilitaries operating a fake army checkpoint, with half his bandmates murdered as he lay still, playing dead to stay alive. Though the attack carries strangely little traction in Britain, the Miami Showband massacre of 1975 is deeply etched into Irish cultural memory. Even amid the context of the Troubles, whose bleak statistics – more than 3,600 dead, more than 47,500 injured – made slaughter almost normalised, the killing of three members of the Miami Showband left Ireland in shock. Fifty years after the atrocity, Lee, 79, tells me about a tangled plot with its roots in the uniquely Irish phenomenon of showbands. In their heyday in the 1950s to 70s, showbands – besuited troupes, closer to cabaret than rock'n'roll, performing contemporary hits with slick routines choreographed down to the last synchronised leg kick – fulfilled a need for glamour and escapism at a time when overseas stars seldom visited Ireland. Showbands, who typically took the stage around midnight, provided a crucial context in which young people from the Catholic and Protestant communities could forget their troubles (and the Troubles), and let their hair down. 'As far as we were concerned,' Lee recalls, 'a punter was a punter, no matter what religion, creed or colour. They would mingle, and you could have a Protestant meeting a Catholic and getting married. It was incredible.' Born John Desmond McAlea on 29 July 1946, Lee grew up in the Catholic suburb of Andersonstown, West Belfast, in a relatively comfortable working-class family. He would supplement his pocket money in audacious ways. On 12 July, AKA The Twelfth or Orangemen's Day, the Protestant community would hold rallies at which the likes of Reverend Ian Paisley would vehemently denounce Republicans and Catholics. Lee would go along and blend with the crowd, collecting bottles discarded by the Loyalist throng and claiming the penny deposits. Lee found a job at a plumbing supplier but his head was soon turned by rock'n'roll, and he quit to follow in the footsteps of his nightclub musician father. He served his apprenticeship on a thriving Belfast scene centred around Cymbals instrument shop, where he rubbed shoulders with a teenage Van Morrison ('A strange guy,' says Lee, 'but an exceptional talent') and future members of Thin Lizzy. In 1967, the circuit's leading act, the Miami Showband, underwent one of its periodic reshuffles and drafted in Lee on sax, along with a handsome, charismatic singer-pianist called Fran O'Toole. Fronted by Dickie Rock, who had represented Ireland at Eurovision, the Miami were as big as it got. When Des calls them 'The Irish Beatles' with a twinkle, it's only slight hyperbole: they topped the Irish singles chart seven times. 'When I got the deal to join,' says Lee, 'I thought, 'My God, all my birthdays are coming together.' I jumped at it.' 'Girls were screaming,' he says. 'We would have 2,500 people inside watching us, and 2,500 outside trying to get in. I couldn't go to the shop without people wanting my autograph. It was stardom with a capital S.' Lee developed a close friendship and songwriting partnership with O'Toole, who later replaced Rock as frontman. Lee became the bandleader. His responsibilities included repertoire and finances, and ensuring everyone looked immaculate (70s footage shows them in dazzling-white suits with glittering lapels). He also instilled discipline. 'My job was to make sure everybody was squeaky clean,' he says. 'No going on the piss before a gig. We weren't saints or angels, make no mistake. What goes on afterwards, behind closed doors, nobody knows. But we had to put on a professional show.' The Miami Showband entered the summer of 1975 in an optimistic mood. The band had scored major hits with Charlie Rich's country standard There Won't Be Anymore and Bonnie St Claire's bubblegum-glam nugget Clap Your Hands and Stamp Your Feet. O'Toole was being groomed for solo stardom, and had been booked to play Las Vegas to launch his Lee-penned single Love Is, with the intention of positioning him as the next David Cassidy. But that show never took place. On Wednesday 30 July 1975, the Miami played the Castle Ballroom in Banbridge, County Down, about 10 miles north of the border. 'It was just a normal night, nothing untoward. We came off stage and did the usual thing: signed autographs, chatted to the fans, then we had a cup of tea and a sandwich, and got ready to do the journey back to Dublin.' Road manager Brian Maguire went ahead in the equipment van. Drummer Ray Millar drove separately to visit family in Antrim. The rest of the band – O'Toole, Lee, Brian McCoy, bassist Stephen Travers and guitarist Tony Geraghty – climbed into the Volkswagen minibus and headed south. Eight miles into the journey, at 2.30am on Thursday 31 July, they were flagged down by the red torch of an army checkpoint, a commonplace occurrence in the North. 'You would be asked the same questions: 'Where are you going, where are you coming from?'' says Lee. 'We would be sitting in the van with a bottle of brandy or whiskey, and we'd occasionally offer a drop to the soldier who stopped us.' They were asked to step out of the van – again, not entirely unusual – and made to line up facing the roadside ditch. At first, the soldiers chatted casually, but their demeanour changed when someone with an English accent joined them and began giving orders. McCoy found this reassuring, telling Travers that they were dealing with the British army rather than the less predictable, locally recruited Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR). Before the search, Lee asked permission to fetch his saxophone to show it wasn't a weapon, laying it on the road a few feet away. Suddenly, an almighty explosion tore through the van, throwing all five musicians across the ditch into the undergrowth. The soldiers had not been soldiers at all – at least, not on duty. The fake army patrol were members of the paramilitary Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), although at least four of them were also serving with the UDR. Their intention was to plant a briefcase bomb under the driver's seat, timed to explode further down the road. The timer malfunctioned, instantly killing two members of the UVF's Mid-Ulster Brigade, Harris Boyle and Wesley Somerville. In the chaos, an order was given to shoot the fleeing musicians to eliminate witnesses. Lee lay still with his face in the grass, slowing his breathing and pretending to be dead – a trick he had learned from watching Vietnam movies – as he heard the murder of his friends taking place around him. First to die was McCoy, 32, shot in the back with a Luger pistol. Travers, 24, hit by a dumdum bullet, was seriously wounded. As Geraghty, 24, and O'Toole, 28, attempted to drag him to safety, they were caught by gunmen, pleading for their lives before being executed with Sterling submachine guns. O'Toole was shot 22 times, his long-haired head so badly mutilated that a doctor would later ask Lee if there was a girl in the band. Travers lay next to the body of McCoy and, like Lee, played dead. Once the attackers had apparently left the scene, Lee cautiously went to fetch help. 'The main road was the most horrific scene I've ever seen in my life,' he remembers. 'There were bits of bodies lying all over the place. It was horrendous.' The first passing vehicle, a truck, refused to give Lee a lift. Eventually, a young couple agreed to drive him to nearby Newry, where he alerted police. 'My hand was on the door handle just in case, ready to jump out, because I didn't trust anybody at that stage.' The killings stunned Ireland, and thousands lined the streets for the funerals of the murdered musicians. The Miami Showband had represented hope. Not only did their shows unite communities, but their membership was mixed: McCoy and Millar were Protestants, the rest were Catholics. Is it fanciful to suggest that they were targeted because someone, somewhere, resented this pan-sectarian fraternisation? Lee doesn't think that was the motive. 'We were the No 1 band, and this gang wanted maximum publicity. If that bomb had exploded when they intended, the Miami Showband would have been accused of carrying weapons for the IRA.' (Indeed, within 12 hours, the UVF accused the band of being bomb-traffickers, describing their killing as 'justifiable homicide'.) Lee agreed to testify at the trial in Belfast on condition he was helicoptered to and from the Irish border, with 24-hour protection. His life was threatened by relatives of the accused; he has, he says, been looking over his shoulder ever since. Lance corporal Thomas Crozier and Sgt James McDowell, both of the UDR, were sentenced to life in the Maze prison, as was John Somerville, brother of the deceased Wesley and a former soldier. (They were released under the Good Friday agreement.) Everything pointed towards collusion: covert collaboration between paramilitaries and the organs of the British state. Travers, Lee and Millar relaunched the Miami Showband with new members before the year was out, to familiar scenes of hysteria – but their hearts weren't in it. Travers felt they had become a circus, and that audiences had come to stare rather than dance; he left the band the following year. For Lee, now lead singer, it could never be the same without his lost band members. 'I looked around and there was no Fran, no Brian and no Tony, and I didn't enjoy that.' In 1982, tired of feeling that he and his family were in danger, Lee started a new life in South Africa, performing as a saxophonist and band leader on the Holiday Inn circuit. He remained there for two decades, only returning after his wife, Brenda, died. Travers, meanwhile, went on a tenacious, meticulous search for the truth, engaging with numerous investigations and initiatives. A 2019 Netflix documentary, Remastered: The Miami Showband Massacre, is centred around his dogged efforts. Through the years, the finger of suspicion has repeatedly pointed at two men: Capt Robert Nairac of the Grenadier guards (later executed by Republicans), and Robin 'The Jackal' Jackson, a former soldier from County Down and a key figure in the notorious Glenanne Gang, were believed to have planned the ambush. Both were named by British intelligence whistleblowers, and Ken Livingstone named Nairac as a conspirator in his maiden speech as an MP. In December 2017, 80 documents were released including a 1987 letter from the UVF to the then-taoiseach Charles Haughey on headed notepaper, which openly admitted collusion with MI5 in the attack. The evidence was now overwhelming. The historic activities of the Glenanne Gang, including the Miami Showband Massacre, fall under the purview of Operation Denton, due to report this year. The massacre hasn't faded from Irish memory. A sculpture commemorating the dead musicians, unveiled in 2007 by former taoiseach Bertie Ahern, stands on Parnell Square in Dublin. One person who apparently didn't remember, however, was Bono, who described the 2015 shootings at the Eagles of Death Metal show in Paris as 'the first direct attack on music'. He later apologised, and U2 incorporated a slide of the Miami Showband into their show. The survivors don't have the luxury of forgetting. The trauma has left an indelible mark. Travers was diagnosed, in later life, with enduring personality change. Lee has, he tells me, experienced profound survivor's guilt. In 2021, Lee was awarded £325,000 compensation, in a package he says was presented to survivors and families as a take-it-or-leave-it deal. He considers the sum to be 'peanuts, for 50 years of anger and pain'. More than financial recompense, he says what he hopes for, with up to five perpetrators still officially unaccounted for, is closure: 'Just tell the world the truth.' My Saxophone Saved My Life by Des Lee with Ken Murray is out now (Red Stripe Press)
Daily Mail
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