Veronica Guerin

Father, look kindly on your children|who put their trust in you.

Bless them and keep them from all harm.

Strengthen them against|the attacks of the devil.

May they never offend you,|but seek to love you in all they do.

May Almighty God bless you,|the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

The Mass has ended.|Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Thanks be to God.

Good morning, Mary. How are you?

Good morning, Elizabeth. How are you?

Good morning, Bernie.

Father, would you say a prayer|to Our Lady for an intervention?

- What's wrong? Is someone sick?|- No.

I just want us to pray for my daughter|to lose her driving licence.

Case number 37 422: Veronica Guerin.

Almost 1 200 parking tickets.

March 1 0th, speeding ticket.

Just last month another speeding ticket|for driving at 1 04 miles per hour.

Well, now, I think that shows|some improvement by my client, Judge.

I'll alert mothers it's safe|to let their children back on the streets.

I... I deserve to lose this case, Judge.|That's fair enough, you know.

But if I can't drive, I can't do my job. I'm|a journalist with the Sunday Independent.

We all know who you are, Miss Guerin.|That does not grant you immunity.

This is Bernie Guerin. I can't take your call|at the moment. Please leave a message.

Mum, I'm driving!|Can you believe it? He let me off.

He actually let me off.|I love you, Mum. Talk to you.

Ah, no! You're having me on.

No, I swear to God. Just a 1 00 fine|and a warning. I'm behind the wheel again.

- It's your ma, the criminal.|- Hi, Ma.

Well, I hope you've learned a lesson|and reformed your ways, young lady.

- Hey, you're not speeding now, are you?|- No, of course I'm not.

Well, maybe a little.

What did you say to that daft judge?

I told him I was guilty as sin.

And he let you off?|Pleads a great case for judicial reform.

Yeah. Another repeat offender|returned to decent society.

This is Garda detective Chris Mulligan.|Please leave a message.

You didn't get me this time, Chris.|Still got the wheels.

I was fined - you're gonna love this -|1 00 quid. Can you believe it?

You owe me lunch. You said wherever|I want, and I'm expensive, don't forget.

Veronica?

Veronica?

The f***ing eagle has landed.

How are you, boss?

Push off, you little scum.

Come on, get your money ready. 5.

How are you?

The name's Veronica.|I write for the Sunday Independent.

May I ask you some questions?|D'you mind?

How much d'you pay for one of those?

A few quid. Anyway, it's cheaper|to rent someone else's needle.

What about the score?

- First one's free.|- Well, I heard 5.

- Where d'you get the cash for all this?|- I just say to some broad like you:

''Give me your money|or I'll inject you with AlDS.''

- How old are you?|- What's it to you?

I'm writing a piece for the paper.|I wanna know where you get the gear.

I'll do your work for you.|Come back when you got some money.

- Fatso, don't be spending that on food.|- I'll check it later.

- Lost, are we?|- Who might you be?

- Neighbourhood watch.|- Yeah, well, better keep an eye out.

I hear there's some dodgy scangers about.

I f***ing swear to God...

Ah, Jamey, Jamey, Jamey, Jamey.

You're an awful man, do you know that?

What'd you have to go and shoot|your mouth off to the Gards about me for?

Did you think I wouldn't find out it was you?

You know, I was thinking about killing you.

And then I thought to myself,|people get killed every day,

and nobody gives a shite.

So I've decided|I'm going to have to hurt you a bit.

Actually, I'm going to hurt you an awful lot.

But the good news is that I'm going to|do you meself. Oh, yeah. Personally.

I mean, you don't want people thinking,

just because I got me name|in the papers and all that,

that Martin Cahill is too posh to do|his own dirty work, now, do you, huh?

For f***'s sake...

Take the gag out of his mouth.

Let the little scumbag squeal.|It's what he's good at, isn't it? Squeal!

Please...

- I'm sorry!|- How are you?

- You made lunch. Aren't you great?|- I must be.

- Hi.|- Hi, Jimmy.

Off to a big news story, are we?

Come on, Ronnie. Give us a scoop.|Who's the scumbag of the week?

Go and buy the paper, little brother.|You ready for me?

- Did I say something?|- Don't look at me. She's your sister.

- Warm enough?|- Yeah.

Night. Night, darling.|I'm in the other room if you need me.

OK.

He won't have any trouble sleeping tonight.

That's cos you wore him out|on the football pitch.

Yeah.

- What's up?|- Nothing.

Nothing or something?

It's bollocks, what I'm writing.

- Give yourself a bit of credit for a change.|- Whatever. So it's half-decent bollocks.

It's light. It's human interest.

It's bollocks.

What a state, on the street.|There were needles everywhere.

- Right where the kids were playing.|- Jesus.

You should have seen these wankers.|Standing there with their new Mercedes.

How many 5 hits of dope do you need|to shift in order to buy a new Mercedes?

Do the math. How many kids is that?

Nobody's writing about it. Nobody cares.

Somebody needs|to get after these bastards.

They're making megabucks.|That's what I should be writing about.

That wouldn't be bollocks.

The pushers are using the underage kids|to do their business.

They know the Gards won't touch the kids.|Everyone knows what goes on here.

Eight kids from this block alone|died from drugs last year. Eight.

All of them under 15.|Four of them were me sister Iris's kids.

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