Chapter 35 – Monday Morning Blues
Monday morning June 9, 2008 – 8:15 AM
Frank Newlan weaved his way in and out of heavy Monday morning traffic as he pointed his red Mercury in the direction of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse. And while one half of his brain was playing imaginary Indianapolis 500 race-car driver games, at the same time, the other half of his cranium was mentally preparing itself for the start of a long week of testimony in the John Breslin murder trial by channeling the inner motivational speaker that resided somewhere deep within his unwavering heart.
To further aid in his phrenic preparation, Newlan puffed on a joint as he sang along to Joe Cocker’s cover version of the famous Traffic song “Feelin’ Alright” which was spinning in his car’s CD player.
Newlan’s head was spinning almost as fast as the CD, and like the suffocating dreams chronicled in the song, he was feeling anything but alright. His sojourn onto his leather sofa continued throughout the rest of the weekend, and the only time his bed got any use over the course of the last two days was when he made love to his friend with benefits, Janis Barry.
Newlan lay there on the sofa all day Sunday, wasted away through another Red Sox game, and then he hardly paid attention as the Celtics held off a late rally by the LA Lakers to win Game 2 of the NBA Finals. Normally, he would have been thrilled at the prospect of a Boston team being so close to another championship, but under the circumstance, he just couldn’t gather up much enthusiasm for the Celtic’s surge towards banner number 17.
Even though a day of watching sports on TV never seemed to fail in helping Newlan put aside his problems for a while, on this particular Sunday he was continually distracted by the latest developments in his life, from his frightening dreams to Marianne Plante’s unexpected letter…and of course the John Breslin murder trial.
And now with the reality of Monday morning coming down on him, Newlan was still trying to make sense of his lazy, yet significantly eventful weekend, as he sang along with Joe Cocker in a marijuana-induced haze.
“Bullshit feelin’ alright. I’m just minding my own business, trying to make my way through life, and then I get swept up in this God damned jealous-husband murder trial…as if I don’t have enough problems with my own love-life. Could there possibly be some higher power at work here, or is it all just one big happy coincidence?” wondered Newlan as Joe Cocker’s gravelly voice continued to expound upon the evil ways of a deceiving woman and the mess she left behind.
Newlan kept flashing back to his Saturday night spent with the salacious Janis Barry wrapped in his arms; the spicy scent of her nectar still lingered in his nostrils, while at the same time, the mysterious unforeseen letter from Marianne Plante hung around his neck like an albatross.
“Maybe I’ll call you sometime she wrote in the PS…maybe I’ll call you,” brooded Newlan, and so for the rest of his lost weekend, every time the phone rang, he jumped up in a startled spasm and anxiously checked the caller ID in anticipation that on the other end of the line might entrancingly be the only woman he ever loved.
Newlan yawned for about the hundredth time of the morning, and as he made his ascent up the courthouse parking ramp, he realized that he had hardly slept or had anything to eat the entire weekend.
“I better do something to get my head together, and soon, or I’m never gonna survive until the end of the trial. Maybe I should go pay Dr. Clay a visit. Maybe he can prescribe me some sort of medication to help me relax. Or even better, maybe he can draw up a note for me, like mom used to do to get me out of school for a mental health day…and maybe I might even be able to get myself dismissed from the case for medical reasons,” schemed Newlan.
“I’ll even plead insanity if it helps,” offered Newlan out loud to himself as he attempted to laugh off his troubles. And with his mind churning along almost as rapidly as his V6 engine, he mechanically wound his way up to the fourth level of the courthouse garage where the security guard was waiting to let him in.
As Newlan maneuvered into the parking lot, at the last minute he decided to back into his chosen spot; he had this crazy notion in his head that maybe if his fellow jurors noticed the dent and the scratched paint on the front bumper of his red Mercury, they might come to the logical conclusion that the red car in the garage next to the office building at 435 Commonwealth Ave in Newton could have belonged to just about anyone.
Since he was the first one to arrive again, Newlan easily backed into his choice of empty spots in the parking lot, but just as he was about turn off the ignition, Joe Cocker began to warble out the lyrics to The Box Tops song, “The Letter” in his unmistakable voice.
“How appropriate…he’s catching a plane because his woman sent him a letter saying that she can’t go on without him…I had a feeling that there was a subconscious reason why I picked this CD,” grumpily contemplated Newlan. But nevertheless, as he hopped out of his car he was happily humming the catchy song to himself just the same.
“Good morning, you ready for some more courtroom drama?” enthusiastically asked the guard as he led Newlan towards the fortified courthouse entrance.
“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” replied Newlan with a shrug of the shoulders and a forced smile.
“Billy or Donny will be down in while to take you up to the courtroom,” informed the guard as he dropped Newlan off at the door of the waiting room.
Since he was the only one in the room, Newlan decided to catch up on his backlog of Rolling Stone magazines, and he was contentedly stoned and heavily focused in on a story about Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama when it came to his attention that in the past few months, he had hardly been paying any mind whatsoever to the comings and goings of the various candidates in the presidential elections.
“Well if I’m loyal to Rolling Stone magazine then I might as well not even bother being informed, and just vote for Obama, since they seem to be fawning all over him,” declared Newlan.
Although he made a it a point to get out and vote when one of the higher offices such as president or senator were at stake, Newlan wasn’t much for politics, so he wasn’t the least bit bothered when the plump, blonde, youngster, Joanne in seat number 10, walked through the door, and broke his train of thought.
Joanne, the army base employee, was by far the youngest juror on the John Breslin murder trial, and as Newlan exchanged hellos with her, he wondered why the lawyers chose her, and how she felt about being on the jury. And as they chatted amicably, he picked up on the fact that she came across as a very conservative, law-and-order type.
“This aint good for Breslin…not good at all…hmmm, I wonder if there was something in her questionnaire that attracted her to DA Lyons. I’d bet a hundred buck that there was,” theorized Newlan to himself, while at the same time he hoped that he wasn’t being too obvious as he picked Joanne’s brain regarding her views on life.
Of course, the truth of the matter was that Newlan didn’t really have much to worry about, because even though he could be rather standoffish, in a casual setting, conversing with a pretty young lady, he could also be quite charming, and as such, Joanne had no idea that his random questions were in any way related to an unscientific poll which was meant to determine how his colleagues might vote. However, in the back of his mind, he already had her pegged as a check in the “guilty” column, just as surely as the liberal editors of Rolling Stone magazine would certainly endorse a vote for Barack Obama.
Next to arrive was Patty, and the retired homemaker was as gracious and motherly as ever. In fact, she even went so far as to offer Newlan some sort of ointment for his puffed-up eye, which by now was almost back to normal.
In response to Patty’s considerate nature, Newlan didn’t even bother attempting to figure out which side of the balance sheet her ballot would fall under; his gut-feeling was that she would just go along with whatever the majority decided.
Slowly but surely the remainder of the jurors bega
n to filter into the room, and Newlan attempted to listen in on as many conversations as possible, all the while compiling mental notes in his head for his unofficial census…and before long, Donny, the elderly Court Officer, arrived to escort them up to the sixth floor.
After a hastily administered headcount, Donny led the way to the express elevator while a security guard kept a group of passersby, who had business to attend to in the courthouse, away from the caravan, and once again Newlan gained a further sense of appreciation for just how important they were to the proceedings.
“You can’t be too careful…some of those people trying to get on the elevator are reporters…they think they’re so smart,” rancorously explained Donny.
It was just after 9:15 AM when the jurors found themselves being marched into the courtroom and after the usual third degree from Judge Gershwin regarding whether they had discussed or researched the trial in any way, they strapped themselves in for another grueling day of witness testimony, which would go a long way in determining the future of one Mr. John Breslin.
However, before the first witness of the day took the stand, Judge Gershwin took a moment to praise the “remarkable jurors” and inform them that court would again adjourn for the day at 1 PM.
And although Judge Gershwin’s rosy comments were meant to foster a positive attitude amongst the jurors, she had Newlan thinking otherwise.
“I don’t get it. How can she be so cheerful when we are gonna have to decide whether to put a man away for life? And what’s this with another half day? We’ll never be finished with the trial at this pace. No wonder the wheels of justice move so slowly. Oh well, who am I to complain…I’m not opposed to leaving early.”
In any event, regardless of what Newlan thought about Judge Gershwin’s mood, and regardless of what he thought about the court’s less than strenuous business hours, DA Lyons was already in the process of calling Officer Ron Torrez, a young cop from the Newton Police Department, to the stand as he was silently grumbling his dismay.
Torrez was the first police officer to arrive at the scene of the crime, and he described finding a group of people milling about a blue Nissan Maxima which contained an unresponsive white male slumped over in the driver’s seat with what appeared to be a bullet wound scarring his left cheek, and blood spattered throughout the cabin of the car.
At the time, Torrez was concerned that there might still be an armed assailant present in the garage, and he recounted how he requested everyone to leave the premises and return to their offices so that he could secure the area. But first he pulled Steve Barron aside and asked him to keep his staff calm, and to make sure that they stuck around in case any of the detectives wanted to interview them.
Sensing the gravity of the situation, Torrez promptly called for backup, and then he initiated a preliminary search of his immediate surroundings in the general vicinity of the garage, which turned up no perpetrators.
After the cursory search, Torrez returned to the location of the blue Nissan, and within seconds he stumbled upon a single shell casing about 3 to 4 feet from the driver side door of the car, and he also observed a cigarette butt that appeared to have been freshly smoked.
Torrez went on to confirm that the evidence, including the cigarette butt, which he described as “smoldering”, was later removed by investigators from the Massachusetts State Police homicide unit.
Lyons then introduced a handful of graphic photos depicting Fred Miller’s sagging, dead body, slouched over in the driver’s seat of his automobile, as the next set of exhibits, but first she had Torrez verify the authenticity of what was being portrayed in the pictures.
The photos included multiple close-ups of the bullet wound in Miller’s cheek, as well as various panoramic angles of the bloody mess, not to mention a shot of Miller’s right hand still eerily clutching onto his car keys which were covered in red gobs of what was obviously blood.
After displaying the pictures on the overhead projector, Lyons handed them over to Assistant Clerk Dan Dente who calmly announced, “Photos of the victim entered as the next exhibit.”
While Dente was officially stamping the photographic evidence into the docket, some sort of commotion broke out in the gallery, mainly people gasping and crying, which was understandable given the nature of the pictures.
Newlan assumed that the startling recoil was coming from Fred Miller’s family and friends, but in keeping to his policy, he was determined not to look out into the audience.
Newlan kept his gaze pointed directly at Officer Torrez, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed that his “favorite” fellow juror, Jane, had broken down into a puddle of tears at the sight of the photos, while Dan the handicapped juror attempted to console her by putting his arm around her and gently rubbing her shoulders.
For some reason, the horrified reaction of Jane and the sobs from the audience affected Newlan more than the actual photographs did. He initially flinched at the sight of the pictures. But then he bit his lower lip and toughed it out…until the sobbing began in earnest that is.
Even as Lyons strategically allowed the pictures to linger on the overhead for a few seconds longer than was necessary, they didn’t seem real to Newlan; he still felt as if he was watching an old TV show, and that the morbid photos being projected on the wall were no more authentic than the actors on a television screen.
However, when the angst in the courtroom didn’t immediately die down, Newlan began to squirm in his swivel chair, and he struggled mightily to fight back his own tears; the emotional byproduct of the gut-wrenching scene was clearly taking its toll on each and every one of the jurors, evidently they just weren’t ready to come face-to-face with the stirring portrait that the photos revealed.
Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had no questions for Officer Torrez, which didn’t surprise Newlan since Torrez didn’t say anything the least bit incriminating towards his client, the sedate John Breslin.
Given the circumstances, Newlan felt that Officer Torrez did a commendable job of keeping his composure at the scene of the crime; although conversely, he was surprised by just how nervous Torrez appeared to be during his testimonial-restating-of-the-facts.
“In a ritzy town like Newton, Torrez probably never expected to come across a dead body,” surmised Newlan as he visualized the rookie cop shitting his pants at the thought of some lunatic hiding behind a car, ready to jump out and pounce on him.
At roughly the same time that Officer Torrez discovered the remains of the bullet, he was joined on the scene by Officer Steve Denney, a 15 year veteran of the Newton Police Department, who just so happened to be the next witness called to take the stand.
Denney recollected receiving a radio bulletin from the dispatcher at around 9 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006 regarding a possible shooting at the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave.
When Officer Denney arrived at the specified location, he temporarily positioned his cruiser so that it was blocking the entrance to the garage. This, he explained, ensured that no cars would be able to enter or exit the premises without his knowledge.
Denney then discussed the situation with Torrez, and he cased the garage with his police issued flashlight in search of potential evidence. He was later instructed by his Sergeant to widen the search and canvass the surrounding area looking for witnesses.
Officer Denney’s testimony seemed fairly benign as far as Newlan could ascertain, so when Lyons had completed her direct examination, he was fully expecting Gleason to once again repeat, “No questions your honor”.
But then he considered the flashlight, and almost immediately, he realized that he was wrong. And sure enough, as Gleason approached the witness stand he asked, “Officer Denney, you stated that you cased the garage with your police-issued flashlight, is that correct?”
“Yes sir,” replied Denney.
“And is that because it was difficult to see in the garage?”
“Yes sir, if I
had to rate the lighting in the garage I’d say it was very poor, and on top of that there were a number of florescent bulbs that were either dim or not functioning at all,” explained Denney.
“Officer Denney you also testified that you were instructed to canvass the area looking for witnesses. Were you able to gather any information during the course of your investigations?”
“Yes sir, I interviewed a number of people who lived in the neighborhood, and there were two women in particular who had what I considered to be relevant information,” replied Denney.
“Do you remember their names?” wondered Gleason.
“May I refer to my notes your honor?” asked the polite Officer Denney as he looked towards Judge Gershwin for guidance.
“Of course” replied the judge with her usual warm smile.
“I interviewed Ms. Kate Preston and Ms. Geeta Kishyoukaya, although I’m not sure whether I’m pronouncing Geeta’s last name correctly,” informed Denney who was now peering back at Gleason.
“And Officer Denney, did you prepare a report for your supervisor regarding your interviews with the two witnesses?”
“Yes sir” once again replied Denney.
“Now around what time did these interviews take place?” asked Gleason.
“Approximately between 9:45 and 10 AM,” estimated Denney.
“And for the record, these interviews took place on the morning of January 13th, 2006, is that correct?”
“Yes sir,” acknowledged Denney.
“And around what time did you prepare your report?”
“I would have prepared the report before I left work for the day, so it was probably sometime around 5 PM on the 13th,” explained Officer Denney.
“No further questions your honor,” announced Gleason, and as he walked back to the defense table, a tiny crack of a smile began to spread across on his face.
For his part, Newlan, who was busily jotting down notes throughout the testimony of both officers, scribbled into his pad:
I think Gleason may have been handed a pair witnesses who might somehow help Breslin’s case!!
I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO HEARING FROM MS. PRESTON AND MS. GEETA WHEN THE DEFENSE MAKES ITS PRESENTATION.
Within minutes after the arrival of Officer Torrez and Officer Denney, the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave. was swarming with Newton police officers on that fateful morning of Fred Miller’s murder, and now each and every one of them was waiting outside of courtroom 630, ready to take the stand before court adjourned for the day.
When Sergeant Frank Alden showed up on the scene, he took control of the situation, directing Torrez, Denney, and a few other officers to look for witnesses, weapons, suspects, and anything else that seemed suspicious.
Lieutenant Lou Bowen was the next officer to arrive, and he evidently pulled rank on Sergeant Alden, ordering him to stand in front of the garage and direct traffic.
Eventually the State Police reported for duty, and they took over the investigation from the overmatched Newton cops who didn’t have much experience with murder cases since after all, violent crimes were a very rare occurrence in the upscale town of Newton Massachusetts.
One-by-one the cops testified…and not a single one of them presented even the slightest bit of information that would in any way implicate John Breslin or Sammy Fox of having absolutely anything whatsoever to do with the crime.
And furthermore, one-by-one, as DA Lyons finished up her direct examination, Gleason consistently followed with the same four words; “no questions your honor.”
At around 11 AM, Judge Gershwin ordered a half hour recess, which turned into an hour long respite for reasons that the jurors would never become privy to.
During the break, a debate arose amongst the jurors regarding the styles of the two lawyers and who was doing the better job.
Many of the jurors disliked Gleason’s approach, and they opined that he focused too much on nitpicking minutia which didn’t have any relevance to the task at hand. And Natalie, the attractive magazine editor who was either snobbish or taciturn (depending on who you asked) and who Newlan so recklessly dubbed “the Ice Princess”, even went so far as to ordain Gleason with the title “creepy”.
Newlan’s “friend” Jane, who appeared to have recovered nicely from the trauma of viewing the bloody photos of Fred Miller, could hardly contain herself as she raved on and on about what a wonderful job DA Lyons was doing.
In Newlan’s mind, Breslin was in a heap of trouble if the majority of the jurors were already siding with Lyons’ over-the-top approach, even though there was absolutely no hard evidence against him yet.
“I can just imagine what’s gonna happen when Lyons gets into the heart of her case, and maybe, if she’s lucky and she produces a speck or two of potentially incriminating evidence, these blood thirsty bastards will be calling for Breslin’s head on a silver platter,” speculated Newlan.
From Newlan’s point of view, unless the prosecution came up with some compelling evidence, and lots of it, he had no intention of voting guilty even if the count was eleven to one.
Newlan respected DA Lyons and the job that she was doing, even though she did get on his nerves at times. But clearly, he favored Gleason’s methods, so maybe he was just as bad as the rest of them.
Perhaps Newlan’s admiration for Gleason’s work was due to the fact that he himself was, at one time, considering going to law school to become a defense attorney. But whatever the reason, he exhibited a strong affinity for Gleason, and he was consistently fascinated by the manner in which the renowned defense attorney honed in on even the slightest inconsistencies in a witness’s testimony.
As far as Newlan was concerned, by his scorecard, Gleason was the hands down winner of the fight thus far. But he was also well aware of the fact that they were only a few rounds into a fifteen round slugfest.
Newlan deemed the boxing analogy to be spot-on appropriate, considering that the two lawyers were constantly throwing jabs and hooks at each other in hopes of scoring points with the ringside judges; and then there was always the possibility of a surprise witness landing a knockout punch when the opposition least expected it; and finally, he could even envision a scenario where, maybe late in the fight, the defendant might throw in the towel, like a white flag of surrender, and change his plea to guilty.
And although the number of Gleason admirers on the jury may have been few and far between, there were a couple of people, besides Newlan, who could see the merits in his work.
Jim, the telecom industry professional, proved this point when he turned to Newlan and whisperingly joked, “When there’s a break in the action I should ask Gleason for his card. Hey you never know when you might need his services.”
“Dude, I was thinking the same thing myself,” cheerfully replied Newlan.
“Personally I don’t like the guy…but you gotta admit he’s good” confessed Jim. Although, his aside only served to further confuse Newlan as to whose corner his was in.
“Well at least he seems to be keeping an open mind, which is what we should all be doing. There are no sides in this battle…our only job is to determine the truth,” mused a conflicted Newlan for the remainder of the break…and then in the blink of an eye, the punch-drunk jurors found themselves back in the overly chilly, air conditioned courtroom, at the ready for more of the same strategic, early-round, pace-dictating, pugilistic action.
The next witness to take the stand was Detective Ed Anderson, also of the Newton Police Department, and the jurors learned that he was responsible for inventorying Fred Miller’s automobile after it was towed to the Newton Police Department garage, where it sits to this very day.
The competent detective described finding a subway pass, a Sirius satellite radio receiver, sports equipment such as softball glove and bat, cigarette lighters, razor blades, a mirror, a tablespoon, a case containing 20 CD’s, and the usual stuff that you might find in a car such as a flash
light, a tire pressure gauge, and a first aid kit.
After DA Lyons had completed her very brief interrogation of Detective Anderson, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason gingerly approached the witness stand, and, by all accounts, he appeared to be quite curious about a select handful of specific items included in the inventory which the detective had just itemized.
“Detective Anderson where, specifically, were the cigarette lighters, the razor blades, the mirror and the spoon located when you found these items within the confines of Mr. Miller’s vehicle?”
“They were in the glove compartment,” nonchalantly replied Anderson.
“Let me ask the question in another way, where these items scattered about the glove compartment or perhaps they were stored in a more organized manner,” inquired Gleason with a curtly inquisitive smile etched upon his face.
“Objection,” shouted Lyons.
Judge Gershwin thought about it for a moment, as she did more often than not before replying to an objection, but she finally decided, “He may have it.”
And upon receiving the go-ahead to continue, Detective Anderson reluctantly replied, “I believe those items were found together in a small leather bag…I’d describe it as kind of like a shaving kit or a travel bag.”
“And what do you suppose those items were used for?” wondered Gleason.
“Objection your honor, this line of questioning is outrageous,” screamed Lyons.
“Sustained,” nodded Judge Gershwin, this time relatively quickly, to which Gleason calmly responded, “your honor may we approach?”
“Of course” replied Judge Gershwin in a rather out-of-the-norm unhappy tone.
The lawyers proceeded to have another heated head-butting sidebar discussion, with Judge Gershwin serving as the referee, licensed by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts Boxing Commission, while at the same time the jurors fidgeted uncomfortably in their swivel chairs.
Jane appeared to be particularly offended by Gleason’s line of questioning, and her huffing and puffing was clearly audible throughout the courtroom.
Newlan wondered whether the elderly Patty even understood that the lawyers were arguing over Gleason’s not-so-subtle insinuation that the ordinary everyday items bundled into Fred Miller’s travel kit were disguising the fact that they were doubling up their utility as the supplemental tools of drug paraphernalia.
But regardless of whether Patty had any idea as to what the attorneys were discussing, as the sidebar raged on, Newlan used the delay as an opportunity to stare out the windows behind him, and he dreamily observe the beautiful June day that awaited him, just beyond the courthouse walls.
Although the shades were partially drawn, the ravenous press and the satellite trucks were clearly visible down below, and the antithetical scene was in sharp contrast to the pleasant oneness with nature that had cascaded over Newlan like a rainforest waterfall.
Newlan then glanced over in Detective Anderson’s direction, only to find the restless cop absentmindedly staring up at the ceiling during the delay.
As the pause in the action dragged on, Newlan was tempted to peek out into the gallery just to quench his growing curiosity. But in the end he resisted temptation and he adamantly kept to his unbending vow of never making eye-contact with anyone but the courtroom participants.
However, if Newlan had mustered up the inquisitiveness to peer out into the audience for even one brief second, to his right he would have observed Cam Miller, his face a blushed red, shaking with rage while his friends and family tried to calm him down; and to his left he would have spotted the smiling family and friends of the defendant, John Breslin, as they looked on in a relaxed state of contentment, which was fueled by the coup de grace direction that the trial appeared to be headed in.
Of course, if the Breslin side of the aisle knew what was good for them, they would have been wise to adhere to Newlan’s boxing analogy and never let their guard down, for all it takes is one well placed below-the-belt punch to the kidney, one rocket-launched blow to the head, to reverse the fortunes of even the best prize fighter.
Meanwhile, the discussion at the sidebar became so animated that Judge Gershwin eventually had to have the jury removed, using the excuse that, “we are going to take a short break.”
By the time the jurors filed back into the deliberation room it was already close to 1 PM, leading more than a few them to utter the same frustrated comment; “so much for getting released at one o’clock.”
Curiously, after all the commotion that Gleason’s probing question triggered, when the jurors settled back into the courtroom, he immediately approached Detective Anderson to resume his interrogation, and then, seemingly in midstride, he changed his mind.
With a slight sigh, Gleason patiently announced, “your honor, I have no further questions.”
“Sure, first he throws out hints about drug use and then he doesn’t follow up. He’s a sly, calculating SOB…and I love it,” cheered Newlan, regarding the rather obvious change of tactics by the acclaimed prizefighter, R. J. Gleason.
The last witness of the day was Newton Police Detective, Gerald Tarani, a grizzled 35 year veteran of the force whose primary responsibility on January 13th, 2006 was to interview the employees who worked in the office building located at 435 Commonwealth Ave.
The only information of note that Newlan could glean from DA Lyons’ line of questioning was that Detective Tarani had separated each of the Barron employees into private offices before he interviewed them. And from his statements it was revealed that he interviewed many of the same people who had already testified in the case, such as Ann W. White, Melissa Green, Steve Barron, Dr. Barnett, Kathy Boyd, Norman Michaels, James Remy and Dianne Mason to name but a few.
When it was Gleason’s turn at bat, he set out to establish that one of Detective Tarani’s main roles in the investigation was to compile as much information as possible, and get the word out on the streets ASAP.
Gleason then inquired; “Detective Tarani do you have any formal training in the field of criminal investigation, specifically as it relates to conducting interviews?”
“Yes sir, I completed classes in Criminal Investigations, Interviewing Techniques, and Criminal Report Writing, all offered by the Massachusetts State Police Training Division,” replied Tarani.
“And what year did you take these classes?” Gleason politely asked Tarani.
“I believe it was around 1976,” approximated Tarani.
“Detective Tarani are you telling this jury that it has been 32 years since you were last trained in these areas?” wondered Gleason with an incredulous ting to his voice. And for his part, Tarani didn’t hesitate in his reply.
“That would be correct sir. But you’re leaving out the fact that I have years of on-the-job training under my belt,” muttered Tarani as he stared down Gleason with a boring glare that was positively deadly.
Naturally, Gleason wasn’t the least bit intimidated, and he continued to deliver a methodical set of queries as if they were punishing body blows to Tarani’s midsection.
“Detective Tarani, roughly how long did each interview last?”
“I’d say no more than 15 minutes each.”
“Now Detective Tarani, in respect to your interviews with Kathy Boyd and Dianne Mason, they both made mention of the fact that they had observed a distinctive red car parked in the garage where Fred Miller was murder, isn’t that correct?” asked Gleason.
“Yes sir, that’s correct.”
“And did either woman EVER mention the model or make of this particular red car?” emphatically asked Gleason.
“I reviewed my reports this morning so that they would be fresh in mind, and I can accurately state with 100% certainty that they did not mention the model or make of the red car,” replied Tarani proudly.
“And did either woman EVER mention peeling paint…or the condition of the hood…or the condition of the front bumper of the red car in question?
” asked Gleason, once again emphasizing the word “EVER.”
“No sir they did not,” whispered Detective Tarani.
“No further questions your honor,” announced Gleason who, if you asked Newlan, appeared to be enjoying himself rather immensely. And with that, another round of testimony in the murder trial of Mr. John Breslin came to an end. But not before Newlan jotted down a last minute observation or two into his notepad before calling it a day:
To find Breslin guilty, the prosecution must also prove that Fox murdered Fred Miller, and based on this red car foolishness, they’re insulting our intelligence and making a mockery of the justice system. Maybe that was Fox’s car in the garage, but was it his car beyond a reasonable doubt?? I THINK NOT!!!!