ON THE second day of her libel trial, Beverley Flynn broke down in the witness box. It was 7 February 2001. There was much surprise in the stuffy courtroom at the turn of events. Up until that point, the Mayo TD's delivery of evidence had been in a different class. She was a model of composure as she brought the High Court through her life and work, a narrative punctuated by sales patter and wrapped up in her bubbly, confident delivery.

Then, as her story arrived at the day in 1998 when Charlie Bird told the world about her past life as a banker, she began crying.

Judge Frederick Morris adjourned for 10 minutes. The reaction among the public and media was telling. There was little sympathy for the emotional outpouring. Instead, a single question played on everybody's lips: were those tears real? Even at that early stage, it was blindingly obvious that Flynn had a serious credibility problem.

That credibility took a battering as the trial wore on. After six weeks of it, a jury of her peers decided they didn't believe that she was an innocent abroad as her employer flogged tax dodging investment vehicles. In 2004, the Supreme Court agreed, ruling she didn't have a reputation.

A few months later, High Court inspectors John Blayney and Tom Grace became the latest to find that, as an executive with National Irish Bank, Flynn had helped others evade tax. Fianna Fail found her crime so grievous it threw her out, not just of the parliamentary party, but of the whole organisation. She was deemed politically unclean by Bertie Ahern and Brian Cowen. Now they want her back, to fit her out for public office, as if the passage of a few years alone is enough to purge her of crimes that are apparently abhorrent to the party. For her part, Flynn insists she has nothing to apologise for.

The reality is she can't apologise for her role in aiding and abetting theft from the state. To do so would be to leave herself open to charges of perjury. For Flynn's major difficulty at this stage is not the tax evasion scam she was selling. As is often the case, it is the cover-up that is the bigger problem. And that cover-up involved a lawmaker dragging an edifice of lies through the highest courts in the land, showing contempt for the administration of law in pursuit of her naked ambition. Unless, of course, everybody is wrong and she has been done a grievous injustice.

A phenomenal saleswoman Flynn was 22 when she joined National Irish Bank in 1989. She didn't invent the culture of fraud at the bank. The industry, particularly at that time, lived in a parallel moral universe, more akin to the law of the jungle, where customers are regarded as prey.

The bank had cottoned on to a great money spinner. The Clerical Medical Insurance (CMI) product was based in the Isle of Man, and was ostensibly designed for non-residents of the state. In reality, it was a tax dodge vehicle that placed cash beyond the taxman's reach. High fees were charged by the bank and the investment was rerouted back into the state, making it available to the investors, but invisible to the taxman. In total, 429 CMI products were sold, with the average investment being �100,000. At least three quarters of those customers subsequently made settlements with the Revenue.

Flynn was in the bank's finance division, flogging the product to high net worth customers.

She told the court that she had no idea it was being used as a tax dodge vehicle. Under no circumstances did she encourage customers to put their undeclared cash into the scheme.

The jury didn't believe her.

She was a phenomenal saleswoman. She told the court that on average she sold 350 financial products a year, including dozens of the CMI policies. In 1994, she was earning �70,000 a year, fantasy money for any twenty-something at the time, even in financial services.

The court heard about a few of her CMI customers. One, a Naas publican, included in his investment Stg�30,000 and �26,000 in an Isle of Man account. Flynn didn't see this as suspicious.

Another customer, named in court as C43, was a social welfare officer who invested Stg�113,000. When he died, it emerged the money was undeclared, or hot. Flynn told the court she was "horrified" when the true origin of the investment emerged. This grown woman, beavering away in a bank which was attracting hot money like flies to manure, was horrified.

Se�n Roe was a witness who told the court he had �200,000 in 1994 and had "no interest in paying tax" on it. He was put in touch with Flynn and she fixed him up with CMI's finest.

He told the court he made it plain to her what he was at. Under oath, she claimed ignorance.

Her former boss at the financial division within the bank was called to give evidence.

Nigel Darcy refused to answer a number of questions on the basis that he might incriminate himself in a criminal matter. Yet the class act, brimming with intelligence, had worked with this man for a number of years, unaware she was a vital cog in a criminal enterprise.

Or so she told the court.

Lucrative product The 1993 tax amnesty was introduced in evidence. One allegation against Flynn was that she advised customers not to bother with the amnesty and instead put their hot money into her lucrative product. The terms of the amnesty were simple. Pay 15% tax on your undeclared stash and you're in the clear.

Strangely, for a class act steeped in both politics and high finance, this system presented problems of comprehension. In one exchange, lawyer Paul O'Higgins suggested to Flynn that the terms were straightforward. The Mayo TD with a high finance background replied that she didn't understand it at the time.

"Did you know about the 15%?" O'Higgins asked.

"I can't say I did or not, " Flynn replied.

"Nobody who didn't sleep 24 hours a day couldn't have not known the features. Do you remember the big row about the amnesty? Nobody in the country didn't know the broad outline. Were you interested in politics?"

"Yes. Because of my dad. My understanding is it was complicated."

That reply must surely render Flynn incapable of running a sale from the boot of her car, not to mind a ministry of state.

The jury did find that RTE hadn't proved the case that Flynn sold a CMI policy to pensioner James Howard, but it was satisfied that she was up to her neck in flogging the products generally as tax dodge vehicles.

Either the jury, the Supreme Court judges and the High Court inspectors are all wrong, or else Flynn walked into court with an edifice of lies. This wasn't a question of somebody being dragged into a court case, and feeling compelled to lie in order to protect their interests. It wasn't a matter of gilding the lily of truth. It wasn't even about breaking the law.

Flynn's frolic in the High Court involved a lawmaker holding the administration of the law in contempt, abusing the process, attempting to undermine it, all in pursuit of demented personal ambition.

In a functioning democracy, the class act could be rehabilitated from her years aiding and abetting the theft. She could apologise, point out that she had suffered - without lapsing into the faux victimhood she is currently embracing - and pledge to work hard in the public interest.

Her conduct in abusing the legal system and attempting to stymie investigation into theft closes off that option. In a functioning democracy, she would now be toast in terms of appointment to public office, confined instead to sorting out potholes around Castlebar.

Return of the prodigy But we do things differently here. Bertie Ahern wants her back in the fold. Three years ago, Ahern was a great man for throwing ethical shapes, casting the unclean Beverley into the wilderness with a rousing speech about doing the right thing.

Today, he doesn't have to bother with that old rubbish. Maybe he feels empathy with her. He knows all the hassle that can result from dealing in large sums of cash. Besides, he can do what he likes, he's a winner once again.

Ethical behaviour? Sure, what's that only another term for politically correct.