From the Eyes of a Juror

  Chapter 28 – Two Tough Cops

  Friday morning June 6, 2008 – 12:05 AM

  Frank Newlan and his childhood friend Sergeant Jimmy Leach of the Medford Police Department didn’t see much of each other anymore, so they were both quite happy to use this chance encounter outside of O’Toole’s Tavern and Grill as an excuse to catch up on current events and have a few drinks for old-time sakes.

  These days Leach was just as likely to go out for a beer with his cop buddies after work as he was with his old gang. And although Newlan, Horn, Reardon, Leach and the rest of their crew were still close friends, between jobs, and families, and other commitments, they were lucky if they all got together as a group once a year. And to make matters worse, Leach worked his share of overtime, graveyard, and weekend shifts in attempt to make ends meet on his less than stellar police department wages, so his availability for partying with his old friends was limited at best, and practically non-existent at worst.

  In their younger days before Leach joined the force, it seemed as if there was a blowout scheduled just about every weekend, and invariably, Leach was the life of the party every time.

  Back in those days, Leach did just as much partying as anyone in their gang of friends, which is why to this day a strange sensation would come over Newlan whenever he’d bump into his old friend patrolling around town, toting a gun and a pair of handcuffs; it was a feeling akin to being trapped in some sort of bizarre alternate universe, and the irony of Leach’s contrasting lifestyles never ceased to amaze him.

  Leach, who was also around the same age as Newlan, was a squat man of about 5’ 5”, and although he possessed a stocky build, he kept himself in decent enough shape, working out at the Medford Police Academy gym. But nevertheless, he had always been encumbered by a bit of a complex when it came to his height, which, when combined with his quick Irish temper, got him and Newlan into their share of barroom brawls back in the wild-eyed days of their youth.

  Of course, Newlan wasn’t too worried about some random group of punks starting any trouble with them on this night, because despite their age, they could still take care of themselves, and when you added Leach’s fellow cop friend into the equation (he was much younger than they were and built like an ox to boot), it was unlikely that anyone would even look at them the wrong way, never mind start a fight.

  “Two tough cops and one crazy drunk…no one’s gonna mess with us…that’s for sure,” presumed Newlan. And even though his barroom brawling days were over as far as he was concerned, as they walked back into the pub, a semi-scandalous thought occurred to him anyway.

  “Hey Jimmy are you allowed to be out drinking in uniform, especially with your cruiser parked outside? That’s all we need, is to end up on the front page of the daily newspaper because some liquored-up dudes decide to take on the off-duty lawmen.”

  “What do you mean drinking? We’re just stopping off to get a bite to eat after our shift. You know…on the restaurant side of the tavern…at one of the tables with the private booths…and besides we’re peace-loving cops,” replied Leach with a wink. “Plus we’re not really in uniform. Do you see a gun on me? Oh and by the way, we’re driving an unmarked car.”

  “Hey Gary this is a good buddy of mine, Frank Newlan…Frankie this is Gary Graves,” added Leach as he turned to introduce Newlan to his partner.

  Newlan shook the bulldog of a cop’s enormous hand and sat down as Leach got a waitress’s attention and ordered up a round of beers…but something about Leach’s partner struck him…and then it finally sank in.

  “Graves…that name rings a bell…I wonder,” thought Newlan as he studied Graves warily, and hesitantly said, “you’re not related to…”

  But before Newlan could even finish his question, Graves answered it for him.

  “My father’s on the force…so if that’s what you were gonna ask…you can give it a rest.”

  Upon the dissemination of this upsetting news, Newlan discreetly glanced over at his friend, Jimmy Leach, who was having a good laugh for himself, seeing as how the unfortunate episode from Newlan’s past had just dawned on him too.

  “That’s right, your old man busted Newlan once. It must have been 20 years ago…right Frankie?” trumpeted Leach, and he went on to fill in some of the sordid details for his partner’s amusement.

  “Oh sure, you had to remind me…and by the way, it was 28 years ago. And believe it or not I was just thinking about that little episode yesterday. Man, you can’t make this shit up,” sheepishly replied Newlan.

  “And incidentally I was found not guilty,” added a defensive Newlan as he stared down the massive Officer Graves.

  “Relax pal…you’re not the first person I’ve ever met who got busted by my dad,” gruffly retorted Graves.

  Based on the tone of his response, Newlan realized that he may have upset the younger Graves. But regardless of the blood relations that Graves shared with Newlan’s former rival, his intentions were never meant to get on the bad side of Leach’s cop partner, and so he apologized with all the sincerity he could muster.

  “Sorry, but I’m a little tense right now…long story,” confided Newlan.

  “No problem…if I had a buck for every dude my dad hauled in, I’d be a rich man by now,” replied Graves with a chuckle.

  In an attempt to lighten the mood, Newlan mischievously winked at the two cops and admitted, “Hey I gotta stay on your good side. You never know when I might get pulled over someday…and I’m not above throwing out names.”

  “As long as you are in Medford…if you ever get pulled over...just tell ‘em you know me. Even if you’re shit-faced…they’ll drive you home, no questions asked” offered Graves in a reconciliatory tone.

  “Thanks…I’ll drink to that,” exclaimed Newlan as he raised his glass and shook Graves’ hand again, and now that the ice was broken, they all had a good laugh, and Newlan let down his guard a few degrees. It wasn’t every day that he got a chance to hang out with cops, drinking at a bar, so he was a little bit uptight about the company that he was presently keeping, and of course the Breslin trial continued to pop uncontrollably into his head when he least expected it, which didn’t help matters either.

  “Hey Jimmy, how come you’ve never offered to arrange a chauffeured ride home for me, just in case I ever get hauled in for being drunk? I’ve known you since I was 13 years old for Christ’s sake,” demanded Newlan in a teasing manner.

  “Because I’m the one who’d probably be pulling your ass over, you son of a bitch,” jokingly replied Leach, and his humorous banter elicited another guffaw from his partner.

  “By the way, Graves…Newlan here works at Tafts,” sidetracked Leach in a covert attempt to steer the subject away from the possibility of an old friend uttering his name in a veiled attempt to get out of trouble with the law.

  Leach would occasionally get calls from people he hadn’t talked to in 20 years wanting him to fix a parking ticket, which would annoy the hell out of him. And besides, most cops didn’t really have the type of pull that Graves was insinuating they had, so he didn’t want Newlan getting any ideas.

  “Really…I use to work on the Tafts Campus Police force before I became a Medford cop, and truthfully, sometimes I wonder why I ever quit. Granted I make more money now, but those college girls love a man in uniform,” slyly explained Graves.

  “Speaking of on-the-job perks…it’s not just the college girls who love a man in uniform. You wouldn’t believe how many babes have hit on me over the years just because I’m a cop…and some of these chicks I’ve pulled over have gotten really outrageous on me. I swear, I’ve been offered blow jobs on the spot. And one time I’m writing up this fox, and I swear to God, as I bring her the ticket, I look down, and there’s her naked bush staring up at me,” insisted Leach.

  “Yeah but admit it Jimmy, half the time they end up being transvestites,” added Graves as they all howled with laughter.


  “Medford’s finest…gotta love it,” exclaimed Newlan as he raised his glass for another toast.

  To a man, Leach and his cop buddies enjoyed telling their war stories, and it seemed that the more drinks they pounded down, the raunchier their stories got; and tonight was no exception.

  Not to be outdone, Newlan, who had his own share of titillating adventures to recount, joined in on the fun as well, and it didn’t take long before the three men became engaged in a good natured game of “top this”, both on the story-telling and the drink-guzzling front.

  And so after a few more rounds of drinks, and a few more rounds of bawdy tales from the naked city, a slightly drunk Officer Graves slurred, “You’re a good egg Newlan...what did my father bust you for anyway?”

  “You’re not gonna believe this one but…drinking in public,” dramatically announced Newlan, and the drunken trio proceeded to roar hysterically at the ridiculousness of it all.

  “His dad is actually a good guy. He’s mellowed a lot over the years…the senile old bastard,” attested Leach, as the laughs resumed anew.

  However, laughter and kidding aside, at some point during one of Graves’ animated yarns, Newlan observed that the roughhousing cop’s right hand appeared to be bruised and swollen, and without thinking twice, he asked, “What the hell happened to your hand?”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, Newlan groaned to himself; “Oh shit, I shouldn’t have gone there…when am I gonna learn to mind my own business?”

  But of course it was already too late for that.

  As it turned out, Newlan had nothing to worry about because Graves was enjoying the attention and he drunkenly replied to the inquiry without giving it a second thought.

  “I busted some punk earlier tonight…and his face accidentally fell into my fist,” explained Graves, and once again the two officers of the law laughed heartily at their “cop humor”, but this time Newlan didn’t find the joke quite so amusing.

  “If I didn’t know better Graves, I’d think you were high or something,” speculated Newlan, and for the second time in less than a minute, he immediately regretted vocalizing his observations, for fear of offending the hard-living cop.

  However, by this late hour of the evening, Gary Graves was having too much fun to be offended by anything a scrawny civilian like Frank Newlan had to say to him. On the contrary, Graves broadcast his intentions rather loudly, and in a tone that seemed to imply he didn’t care who heard him.

  “Speaking of getting high…I have some business to take care of…so gentlemen if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll be back shortly,” proclaimed Graves, and off he went out to the unmarked patrol car, to take care of “business” as he so succinctly put it.

  Newlan, who wasn’t born yesterday when it came to the ways of the world, frowned suspiciously over at his life-long friend, but Leach just shook his head in return, and in an authoritative tone, he simply said, “Don’t ask.”

  On the plus side as far as Newlan was concerned, now that it was just the two of them at the table, he felt as if he could open up to Leach about a couple of topics of discussion that were suddenly grating on his mind.

  “Jimmy, did Graves really beat up some punk tonight?” wondered Newlan.

  “I wasn’t there at the time, but knowing him, I’m sure he did, and I’m sure the punk deserved it,” replied Leach quietly as he glowered into his beer, and the seriousness of his response was in sharp contrast to the jovial stories that he had been telling just a few minutes ago.

  “Come on Jimmy. Remember that time we were loitering in the McDonald’s restaurant in Medford Square when we were kids, and the cops told us to screw…and you moved a bit too slowly for them, so they beat the shit out of you?” asked a now dead-serious Newlan.

  “Yeah, but I deserved it…I was a punk back then,” replied a defensive Leach; the police officer in him taking precedent over his former youthful self to the point where he was actually defending the bastard cops who had beaten him up all those years ago.

  “I wanted to help, but the cops told me to take a hike or I’d be next, and I was scared shitless,” confessed Newlan in a voice tinged with panic.

  “Hey, there was no sense in both of us getting our asses kicked. Let me give you a tip Frankie…once a cop starts getting aggressive on you, just go limp. Same as they teach us to do if we’re attacked by a wild dog or something. You show the least bit of fight, and they’re gonna pound you even harder.”

  “And then they charged you with assault and battery on a police officer, and resisting arrest…when all you did was stand there and took their beating,” added a now outraged Newlan.

  “Yeah, but then they didn’t show up for the court hearing, and I got off, so it all worked out. That’s the way it works Frankie, we beat someone up, and then we let ‘em go…no harm done,” explained Leach as he vainly attempted to expound on the dog-eat-dog laws of the land for Newlan’s benefit.

  “So what are you saying…the cops get to play judge, jury and executioner?” stammered a drunken Newlan, a bit more forcefully than he had intended to, as he drained down another beer.

  “Yeah, that’s basically it. Look Frankie, it’s fucked up out there, you wouldn’t believe the shit that goes on…and I’m just talking about quaint suburban Medford. Try driving through certain sections of Boston late at night, and you’d be lucky to get out alive,” rationalized Leach in a philosophical tone.

  And even though the two old friends were having a lively discussion, they weren’t even close to being mad at each other…but then again, everyone has their breaking point.

  Newlan could feel himself drifting off into a pensive mood as Leach went up to the bar to order another round of beers…and when he returned to the table, Newlan had a probing question waiting in the ready for him.

  “Hey Jimmy, remember that time you told me that you guys do whatever you have to do to make an arrest stand up in court…what did you mean by that?”

  “I never fuckin’ said that…what the hell are you talking about Frankie?” growled a defensive Leach, albeit rather unconvincingly.

  “Your full of shit, Leach,” uncharacteristically boomed Newlan as he practically spit into his beer. He even surprised his own self with his angry reaction, but he was too drunk to back down now.

  “Fuck you Newlan…you wanna go outside and settle this,” shot back Leach with a glaring look that clearly stated; “Now you’re pissing me off.”

  However, just as the contentious conversation was on the brink of disintegrating into a full-scale argument, something struck Newlan funny about the idea of going outside with his childhood friend and settling their differences, which caused him to crack up laughing, and soon both men were in hysterics.

  But when the laughter finally died down, Newlan withdrew back into a pensive mood again, which had Leach resorting to a bit of soul-searching.

  “What’s eating at you Frankie…all of a sudden you don’t seem like your happy-go-lucky self tonight?” wondered an inquisitive Leach.

  “Well, I really didn’t want to talk about it, but I guess I can tell you since you’re a cop and all. I’m on jury duty…a murder trial…a fuckin’ murder trial, Jimmy. It’s only been one day and I’m already a basket case,” acknowledged Newlan who was now on the verge of tears. “We might have to put this guy away for life…for life, Jimmy…and it’s eating away at me.”

  As Leach became aware of the pain that was being emitted from somewhere deep within the core of Newlan’s emotional words, he felt a sudden swell of sympathy for his old friend.

  “Come on Frankie…pull yourself together…there’s no need to worry yourself sick over this. These guys we bring in for murder are usually thugs or lunatics.”

  “Yeah, but the lawyers are already playing games, and I have a feeling that it’s only gonna get worse as the trial goes on,” replied a sniffling Newlan.

  “Relax Frankie…you said it’s only b
een one day. Just use your common sense and let it play out,” reassured Leach, but then his police mentality kicked in again and he added a few more words of wisdom to his sage advice. “These guys are never innocent…give us some credit. We don’t bust innocent people for murder. All right, I admit it, granted sometimes the detectives have to stretch the facts a hair to make sure we get a conviction, but what would you prefer, a murderer walking the streets because of a technicality? It’s the lesser of two evils.”

  “But what if they make a mistake? I saw on the news recently where they let an innocent dude free after twenty years in prison. I don’t want that in the back of my mind for the rest of my life,” whimpered Newlan as he covered his head in his hands. Clearly he had had too much to drink.

  “It doesn’t work that way Frankie. If someone gets screwed over for something they didn’t do, then they usually did something worse that they were lucky enough to get away with, or no one ever found out about. These guys who are supposedly innocent and somehow get out of the slammer, they usually end up right back in the can within a year…it’s a fact…look it up,” affirmed Leach.

  However, in Newlan’s current state of mind, Leach’s arguments were only confusing him even more than he already was, and he began tearing up again.

  “I gotta get off this fuckin’ trial,” muttered a slobbering Newlan, but then just as quickly, he got a handle on his failing emotions, and he was primed for more booze.

  “You ready for another beer, Jimmy?” spritely asked Newlan, but Leach had other ideas.

  “No, you’re shut off Frankie…let me get you a cup of coffee,” offered Leach. He didn’t mean to insult Newlan, but rather he was just trying to be a good friend, and when he returned with two cups of strong Columbian brew, he pried a little deeper into his buddy’s problem.

  “So what case are you on anyway that’s got you all wound up like this?”

  “Believe it or not, I somehow got myself roped into the John Breslin hit-man murder trial…have you been following it on the news?” dubiously replied Newlan.

  Upon taking in Newlan response, Leach’s demeanor turned unusually somber, and a look of concern spread like crab-weed across his face. But after a moment of quiet contemplation, he offered up a revised dishful of advice for Newlan to chew on.

  “You better watch yourself Frankie…and whatever you do, don’t talk to the press.”

  “Why, have you heard something about the case?” wondered an alarmed Newlan. He sensed the air of dismay in his friend’s facial expression, and the distress was rubbing off on him.

  “Well, I have heard that Sammy the Fox, the dude who supposedly pulled the trigger, has mob ties. Now I’m not saying that he did it…all I’m saying is that you need to be careful,” interjected Leach.

  “Understood,” obediently replied Newlan.

  “Now Breslin, on the other hand, he’s a lightweight. I’d be much more worried about you if you ended up on Fox’s jury. Breslin just got mixed up with the wrong crowd of people, and he thought he was a hot shit…and now…well, look at where it got him. He’s probably gonna end up in prison for the rest of his life. Not to say that I wouldn’t have done the same thing if someone was fuckin’ around with my wife. I’d just be more careful that I didn’t get caught. I don’t know, but this Breslin character doesn’t sound like he’s the brightest bulb on the block if you ask me,” theorized Leach.

  Newlan wasn’t sure whether Leach’s hypothesis was strictly a case of conjecture, or whether he had a cache of inside sources funneling him information, after all he was a police officer. But regardless, he stubbornly made his doubts known, loud and clear.

  “Well so far, I think he’s innocent, and it’s gonna take a shitload of evidence to convince me otherwise.”

  Newlan’s proclamation, in turn, left Leach seething with frustration and shaking his head in surrender. Everything he had just tried to explain to his old pal about how the system worked seemed to have gone in one ear and out the other. But after a few minutes of back and forth jabbering, Leach offered up an empathetic proposal.

  “I tell you what. I’ll see what I can find out, and if I come up with anything, I’ll give you a call. But this is between you and me. I could get screwed over big-time for doing this. But hey, you’re my friend…and friends come first. I just want you to have some peace of mind, regardless of how the case turns out.”

  “You’re a good friend,” driveled an emotional and very drunk Frank Newlan. Yet despite his dual impairments, he was aware enough to recognize a good deed when he saw one. And furthermore, he was touched by Leach’s offer, and it showed in his demeanor.

  Leach, on the other hand, promptly considered the feasibility (or lack thereof) of his generous offer, and he preferred not to dwell on his impulsiveness.

  “What do say we change the subject Frankie? Are you still enjoying the condo lifestyle? We get calls to go to your complex all the time…nothing serious…usually just your typical domestic stuff. You know, drunken husband slaps around wife…that sort of thing,” elucidated Leach, while at the same time trying his best to stifle a persistent yawn which was an inevitable byproduct from working all kinds of crazy hours.

  “Yeah, it seems as if the cops show up at the complex just about every other day, but it’s not too surprising…there are 260 units between the two buildings…it’s like a little city. We should probably have our own police force,” expounded Newlan, and then in a neighborly tone he urged; “Hey if you’re ever in the vicinity you should stop by and say hello.”

  “I’d love to, but when I’m in your neck of the woods, it’s strictly business,” replied Leach with a laugh, and just like that, the two old friends were back to having a relaxed conversation, reminiscing about their boisterous past.

  “Hey Jimmy, remember that time back in high school when I got so drunk that I ended up passed out in the park, and you stayed with me all night until I was sober enough to crawl home?”

  “Yeah Frankie, I remember it well. Ah, those were the days. But what about all those times when I was so drunk that I’d black out, and the next day you’d fill me in on what happened…and I’d be like, ‘are you shitting me, I did that?’”

  Meanwhile, after about twenty minutes of doing whatever it was he was doing outside in the unmarked cruiser, Medford Police Officer Gary Graves made his grand re-entrance into O’Toole’s Tavern and Grill, with his head in the clouds and his feet walking on air.

  Apparently the punks that Graves had busted earlier in the evening were in possession of some unknown contraband, which he decided to keep for himself, and all it took was one sampling of the haul for him to determine that his efforts were quite fruitful indeed.

  And although Newlan wasn’t privy to exactly what Graves was up to, he wasn’t the least bit shocked to see him come strolling back into the bar even higher than he was when he left on his mini sojourn.

  As Graves ventured toward the lounge area of the pub, he happened to stumble upon a table which held three young women ranging in age from their late 20’s to their early 30’s, and of course, being a man in uniform as he was, he attracted the ladies attention.

  “Good evening ladies,” exclaimed Graves as he tipped an imaginary cap, while at the same time he attentively observed that their table was littered with empty drinks, and on top of that, they appeared to be quite receptive to his friendly advances.

  “Hmmm, three drunken bitches without dates…in a dive of a bar…at this hour of night…they can only have one thing on their mind,” deduced Graves and it was clear what he would do next.

  “Ladies, would you care to join us for a nightcap?” he asked, and sure enough, the party girls accepted his invitation.

  As Graves approached his partner’s table accompanied by the three tipsy women, Leach nudged Newlan with his elbow and happily rendered his stamp of approval.

  “Looks like my boy brought back some presents with him. I taught
him well…never show up at the party empty-handed.”

  And in turn, Newlan smiled widely and replied with the glee of a child on Christmas morning.

  “Despite his lineage, I’m starting to like you partner more and more by the minute. Those babes gotta be at least 20 years younger than us. But hey, if they don’t mind then I’m not complaining.”

  “Fellas, I’d introduce you to the ladies, but we just met ourselves, and I haven’t had the pleasure of getting their names yet,” drawled Graves as he pulled up a few chairs for their female guests.

  Newlan discretely sized up the giggly girls, and sure enough, as if it were some sort of law, two of the young ladies were hot, while one of them was, as he liked to put it, “well…not so much.”

  And when he realized that he was going to have a tough time competing with the two semi-uniformed cops for equal attention, he mapped out his strategy; “go for the ugly one.”

  Newlan and the cops were having a good old time for themselves entertaining the impressionable, drunken women, while a few tables away, a handful of the local fledgling regulars sat seething, ready to take on all comers.

  Is seems that the six youngsters had been buying the girls drinks all night, and they had squandered most of their meager cash flow on the them, only to have these smooth-talking, asshole, Medford cops and their sleazy friend come swooping in at the last minute and pull the rug out from under them.

  And truth be told, if Newlan had realized what was going on, he probably would have sympathized with the young studs to some degree. He and his friends had been burnt in the same manner many a time in their younger days until they finally smartened up.

  Actually, for Newlan it only took a few wasteful evenings spent buying drinks for a cute girl all night, and then ending up without even a phone number to show for his troubles, before he rapidly learned his lesson.

  Now-a-days Newlan made it a strict policy to only buy drinks for women he was acquainted with. He would just assume spend his hard-earned money buying his friends drinks, rather than using the lure of free drinks as an enticement to try and score a date with some floozy.

  But unfortunately the young punks hadn’t learned this lesson yet, and they weren’t taking defeat as gracefully as Newlan once did in his younger days.

  “Fuckin’ cops, they think they own the place,” grumbled one of the youngsters; and then another added, “yeah, get them alone and they’re not so tough”; and then a third added a gaggle of “oink, oink” piggy sounds for good measure.

  “Uh oh…I think this could be trouble. I guess I was wrong about no one messing with us,” silently surmised a suddenly tense Newlan.

  “Ladies, are those guys over there in the peanut gallery friends of yours?” calmly asked Leach while Graves sat waiting in the wings, chomping at the bit for another round of fisticuffs.

  “No…no…we just met them,” explained the flirty girls, conveniently leaving out the fact they had been drinking for free all night courtesy of the “peanut gallery”.

  “Good, because if they don’t shut up, I may have to re-arrange their faces…which would be an improvement I might add,” grumbled Graves, as his hairpin temper began to kick in.

  Graves appeared to be experiencing an adrenaline rush at the mere prospect of brawling, and it didn’t take long for Leach to concur with his partner’s assessment of the situation.

  “You ready for some fun and excitement Frankie?” intoned Leach, to which a concerned Newlan cautiously replied, “I don’t know…I think I might be getting too old for this stuff.”

  Even in his heyday, Newlan was usually a peacemaker, not a fighter; although if push came to shove he could handle himself pretty well, and he was always at the ready to assist a friend in need.

  “They got us outnumbered, but don’t panic, we’ll do all the heavy lifting, just watch our backs,” instructed Leach.

  “You know I’d never bail on you Jimmy. Whatever happens, I’ll stick it out until the bitter end,” anxiously replied Newlan. And even though he was scared beyond wits end, he meant every word of his vow.

  But regardless of whether Newlan was frightened on not, it goes without saying that the young-and-restless locals weren’t about to stop their verbal assault. In fact, it seemed for all-the-world as if they were intent on taking down the women-stealing cops and their wimpy-looking friend even if it meant spending the night at the local police station.

  However, the punks were about to learn that sometimes it’s best to just leave well enough alone, because after enduring a few more rounds of unabated badgering, Gary Graves had had just about enough.

  “If you all will excuse me for a minute, I think I’m gonna go have a talk with these fine young gentlemen over here,” declared Graves as he uncoiled his 6 foot 4 inch, 235 pound frame and approached the hecklers’ table by himself.

  “You guys have a problem with me and my friends?” unflinchingly asked Graves, and when the locals got a good look at his linebacker’s build, he wasn’t too surprised when not one of the young roughnecks so much as said boo to him. But that didn’t stop him from spitting out his expert analysis.

  “I didn’t think so,” mocked Graves. He was content with being the bigger man for now, but as he turned around to walk away, the leader of the punks, a pimply, red-faced, husky blond kid who was wearing a scaly cap, threw out a taunting jab, just loud enough for him to hear.

  “Go back to Medford, you asshole,” came the battle cry from the antagonistic instigator, followed by a few choice words from his cohorts.

  Of course, the punk ringleader wasn’t planning on waiting around for Graves to respond. The kid was spry and agile, and so within a split second he was out of his seat with an empty beer bottle raised up high, ready to send a haymaker crashing down on the back of Gary Graves’ head.

  But alas, unfortunately for the young pugilist, he made one fatal tactical error. In retrospect, he should have just silently attacked, because all Graves needed to hear was that last swath of jeering insults from his foes, to set him off like a silverback gorilla. The sneering derision was enough to send him instinctively whipping around with a roundhouse right, primed to make contact with whoever happened to be the closest hoodlum to his rather large fist.

  But as fate would have it, the empty beer bottle smashed into the front of Graves’ forehead at the exact same moment that his fist absolutely leveled his attacker.

  The pulverizing punch connected squarely against the young punk’s nose, and sent a sickening thud echoing through the bar, while at the same time, the shattering glass had Graves seeing double.

  The force of the blows buckled both men’s knees and they collapsed to the floor, knocking over a row of tables in the process, which sent half-empty bottles and glasses flying in every direction.

  The punk was unconscious and severely injured, while the hardheaded Graves was rolling around in agony with blood pouring from a cut above his eye. Needless to say, at that point, the melee was on…and mayhem ensued.

  After observing what had just taken place, the local gang, along with Leach and Newlan, all converged on the spot where Graves and his opponent were laid out on the floor.

  Since Graves was momentarily knocked out of commission, and it would have been one against five, Newlan was once again forced into duty; he was forced into being an unwilling combatant; he was forced into give up his conscientious objector’s status. He had promised to stick by his friend; and being a man of his word, that’s just what he did, and he did it with a vengeance we might add.

  As the scrum developed, one of the youthful thugs began to kick the prone Graves, which enraged Newlan. The kid was so focused on kicking the downed officer that he never noticed Newlan wind up and send him sprawling across two tables with a sucker punch of his own.

  When the brawl ensued, Quentin the bartender immediately called 911, and within minutes (although it seemed like hours to Newlan) the Malden Police arrived
and restored order.

  All five of the brawling punks were arrested, but predictably, Newlan and the two Medford cops were treated like royalty.

  “Professional courtesy,” Leach whispered to Newlan with a sly wink.

  The sixth young punk however wasn’t as fortunate as his friends. He would rather have spent the night in jail any day of the week, but instead he was being rushed to the hospital with every bone in his face cracked and splintered like a hardboiled egg.

  For his part, Graves refused medical treatment. He was much more concerned with whether he was going to wind up getting into any legal trouble because of his latest transgression. But as he stood outside the bar, with an ice pack on his head, discussing the situation with Malden’s finest, they agreed that the five locals would be let go on the condition that everything got hushed up. If anyone asked, their semi-comatose friend got too drunk and slipped, and in the process he smashed his face up against the corner of the bar.

  And so with all of the thorny little details ironed out, Graves took a moment to search out Newlan and he thanked him profusely for his help in removing one of the punk’s feet from his belly.

  “Anything I can ever do for you…you just let me know,” offered an insistent and appreciative, not to mention extremely inebriated, Officer Graves.

  “No problem…all in a day’s work. I’m just pissed off that the ladies took off when the fight started,” replied Newlan nonchalantly (understandably, the women made a bee line for the exit as soon as the hostilities began), even though, in reality he was still shaking like a leaf.

  “You pack quite a wallop there partner,” exclaimed an enthused, albeit exhausted, Leach as he patted Graves on the shoulder.

  “Like father like son,” declared Newlan, and for the third time of the evening he regretted talking out of turn. He was once again concerned that his commentary might be taken as an insult. He didn’t mean any harm; the words just sort of came out without him thinking about what he was saying. But as usual, his concerns were unfounded, because Graves took his remark as another compliment and he proudly replied, “You bet your ass, like father like son.”

  “And you Frankie…you’ve done me proud brother,” grinned Leach like a proud papa as he wrapped Newlan in a big bear hug which almost knocked him over.

  “Are you OK to drive Frankie?” asked a concerned Leach after he caught wind of just how unstable Newlan’s balance appeared to be.

  “I’m fine,” Newlan fibbed as he leaned up against Leach’s unmarked cruiser. However, when he attempted to walk over to his car he was definitely a bit wobbly; an observation that didn’t go unnoticed by any of the assembled lawmen in his presence.

  “Just follow me Frankie, we’ll get you home,” instructed Leach. And as they pulled out of the parking lot, he turned on the hidden flashing lights of his stealthy car and peeled on down the road with Newlan in hot pursuit.

  And so, for the second time in two days, Frank Newlan was being treated…to a police escort.