Chapter 71 – Brilliant Disguises
Monday morning June 16, 2008 – 6:00 AM
Frank Newlan woke up in a daze after another frightful dream-filled night fueled by his latest little helper, the prescription drug Lorazepam. But despite the internal fog, which had yet to completely lift from his brain, Newlan still made a halfhearted attempt to muddle through his exercise routine before preparing for what he fully expected would be his last day of duty over at the courthouse.
And upon completion of his futile excuse for a workout, along with the rest of his standard morning routine, Newlan haphazardly threw on some clothes, and of course he made sure that he had Doctor Clay’s liberating letter firmly in his possession before he left for the day.
Per usual, just as he was about to head out the door, Newlan remembered to snatch up the Supertramp CD from his desk and replace it with something else for the ride. And since it was turning out to be another one of those mornings where he didn’t have the energy to browse through his entire music collection, once again he kept his attention fixated in the “S” section, and he promptly reached for Bruce Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love” CD.
Newlan’s drug-addled sleep, although semi-restful, did little to lessen the weight that he had packed into his boatload full of fears, and as he drifted past Saeed Kahn, who was manning the security desk as always, he was a bundle of nerves. Newlan didn’t even bother acknowledging Kahn, but he could almost feel the ashen doorman’s stare burning a hole through his heart, just as Dr. Clay’s note was burning a hole in his pocket.
With Kahn behind him for the time being, Newlan languidly made his way down to the garage and started up his red Mercury Mystique. But before he even put her into reverse, he plopped in the Springsteen disc and pressed the Random button, which arbitrarily cued up the carnival music of the title cut.
The upbeat background music did little to mask the desperation in Springsteen’s words, and so it should come as no surprise that the song, which Newlan considered to be a lyrical metaphor for sex, reminded him of Marianne Plante; it reminded him of Janis Barry; it reminded him of Tracy Stone; it reminded him of the oh so many women who had passed through the revolving door of his life over the years.
Newlan wallowed in the tempo of the circus-like melody, which, despite its lively pace, somehow managed to play off nicely against the song’s central theme of learning to live with your fears, and he seemed to be agreeing with Springsteen as he absentmindedly murmured, “yes Bruce, we sure do get lost sometimes… in our own little tunnels of love.”
Probably the most well-known tune on the “Tunnel of Love” CD, “Brilliant Disguise” kicked in just as Newlan pulled into the courthouse garage, and the haunting chorus, which questions the true identity behind our brilliant disguises, instantly zapped him with an overpowering case of the chills; a condition which only the swaying force of music had ever managed to produce in his lovelorn veins.
The song’s universal message had Newlan at a loss for words, and in his rectitude he wondered about the truth which lay hidden somewhere behind the eyes of Marianne Plante…and Janis Barry…and Tracy Stone…and all of the other headstrong women who had disturbed his peace and serenity for so long now.
Newlan wondered and he wondered and he wondered some more. However, much like Springsteen, he still wasn’t quite sure what this world, what this life, was all about; what made people do the impetuous things that they do.
But alas, despite Newlan’s existential mood swings, life must go on, and his presence was required, at least for a little while longer, at the site of the John Breslin murder trial, where a bloodthirsty congregation had been patiently waiting for the ticking clock of justice to strike midnight and spell the end for the moribund defendant. For a week and a half and counting, this hungry mob had been solemnly praying for Breslin’s head to be handed to them on a silver platter, and Newlan no longer wanted anything to do with the vindictive proceedings which had been bestowed upon him.
Newlan’s apathy was growing stronger by the second, and as it intensified, he lackadaisically pulled into the juror parking lot. But this time he didn’t even bother to back into his parking space as he had done last week, for all the good it had done
“Not one friggin’ juror commented about my red car, and how with its scratched-up bumper, it could very well have been the same car that all those witnesses identified seeing at the scene of the murder,” grumbled Newlan as he reported for duty with a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder.
Newlan was as subdued as he had been at any point since the opening of the trial, and he buried his face into a back copy of Rolling Stone magazine while Patty and the rest of their colleagues began to arrive in dribs and drabs, and from there they casually went about the business of rehashing their weekends.
“So how about you Frank, did you have a nice couple of days off away from here?” cheerfully inquired Patty who was apparently unaware of the fact that Newlan’s muted facial expression signaled a desire that he preferred to be left alone this morning.
“It was rather uneventful,” deadpanned Newlan, but all the while, deep inside he was harrowingly thinking to himself; “if only she knew what a crested tidal wave of emotions I’ve been riding on since Friday afternoon.”
Newlan didn’t mean to be rude, but at the moment he had more important things on his mind, such as mulling over his strategies for getting Dr. Clay’s note into the learned hands of Judge Gershwin. How exactly should he go about it? Should he just hand the written diagnosis to whichever court officer showed up first in the waiting room to escort them upstairs? Or maybe he should he hold off until they got up to the deliberation room, and then slip the letter into the reliable hands of Billy when no one else was looking?
Newlan’s main objective was to keep as low a profile as possible regarding the good doctor’s letter so as not to arouse the curiosity of his fellow jurors. But of course, the overriding goal was to get his butt dismissed from the trial no matter how the sequence of events went down.
By 8:45 AM all of the jurors had arrived with the exception of Joanne, the buxom young blonde, and as the minutes ticked away, Donny the elderly Court Officer was becoming more and more impatient, which was evident by the way he aimlessly paced around the room like a fly crawling along a windowpane.
Donny’s anxiety prompted Newlan to hold tight with the news of his confidential letter, and it firmly convinced him that the couriering of the note was a job for Billy and Billy alone.
By 9 AM the jurors had joined Donny in his state of wearily restless. However, just as their listlessness was about to reach its peak, they were startled back to attention by the sound of Billy’s voice crackling over Donny’s two-way radio, more than loud enough for them to overhear.
“Bring ‘em up, seat number ten called in with car trouble, she’s off the case,” informed a cranky Billy…and as the remaining jurors made the jaunt up to the deliberation room, they were all abuzz over the departure of Joanne or “seat number 10” as she was officially referred to by the judicial staff who occupied courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse.
“That’s all it takes to get off the case? Well my car’s on its last legs too,” griped an incredulous Newlan as the elevator made the short leap up to the sixth floor. However, regardless of automobile woes, Newlan was sticking to his current plan of action for getting himself excused from his civic duty, and as such, he removed Dr. Clay’s note from his pocket in anticipation of passing it along to Billy like a hot potato at a children’s birthday party.
But unfortunately for Newlan however, he found that Billy was otherwise indisposed.
Unfortunately for Newlan, no sooner had his fellow jurors entered into the deliberation room when they practically attacked Billy with questions regarding the welfare of Joanne…and so Newlan was forced to sit tight and wait it out for just the right moment to cash in on his ticket to ride.
“Relax people, Joanne’s
OK” insisted Billy in his thick Boston accent, and with that loose end tied up tight, the next obvious subject to be broached revolved around the implications of being short one juror.
“It’s a case of simple math,” exclaimed Billy, “we now have fifteen jurors instead of sixteen, and if my calculations are correct, that means we’ll only have three alternates instead of four.”
“By the way, how do we go about selecting the alternates?” wondered Peter, the ever curious software engineer.
“Well, at the end of the closing arguments, just before deliberations begin, we pick four seat numbers out of a hat so to speak, correction make that three seat numbers now…and the jurors in those seats are declared alternates, meaning that they don’t get a vote in deciding the verdict. But they still have to stick around anyway, just in case someone gets sick or something else comes up…like car trouble for instance,” wryly explained Billy as he made his way for the door to check in with Judge Gershwin.
Meanwhile, back in the deliberation room a debate ensued amongst the jurors as to the merits of being selected as an alternate. And as it turned out, the opinions were decidedly mixed, if, for the most part, somewhat muted. Although, not surprisingly, Jane was none too shy about making her feelings known loud and clear.
“I definitely don’t want to be chosen as an alternate. After all we’ve been through, you’d have to be crazy not to want your voice heard when it comes time to making our decision,” announced Jane, while all around her the conversation picked up steam like a dreary smokestack on a cold winter day.
After the usual outburst of nervous energy, which was becoming the norm amongst this particular group of jurors, the exchange seemed about ready to run its course again when Mark, the lanky young high tech employee, chimed in with a mischievous inquiry that may or may not have been purposely intended to resuscitate the debate.
“What about you Frank?” pried Mark. And although he should have known better, particularly with his exodus, paved in the firm handwriting of Doctor Clay, waiting in the wings, Newlan, who had continued to remain uncharacteristically quiet up to this point in the morning, took the bait anyway.
“Given a choice, I’d definitely prefer to be an alternate. Hey, as I’ve said a million times already, I never asked for this assignment to begin with,” decisively concluded an unapologetic Newlan. But at the same time he was gleefully thinking to himself, “Anyhow, mercifully it doesn’t much matter what I prefer, since I’m as good as gone anyway. If Joanne can get herself excused for a mechanical breakdown, then a nervous breakdown has to be a sure bet for dismissal.”
However, optimistic though Newlan might have been, it didn’t take much to bring his spirits down a notch or two; it didn’t take much to egg him on and send him into a tizzy; it didn’t take much more than a manhood-challenging comment from Jane to arouse his indignation.
“Why am I not surprised?” huffed out Jane, and just like that, her veiled insult suddenly left Newlan with a flood of second thoughts as far as removing himself from the juror pool. Something told him that maybe it was a little too late to back out now. Something told him that maybe he was morally obligated to stick it out until the trial had reached its ultimate conclusion. Something told him that maybe he was being led by an invisible trail of blood to the zenith of his debilitating nadir.
Along with Jane’s bluster, perhaps Newlan’s sudden turnaround also had something to do with his drug-induced collapse and his mysterious revival, perhaps not. But whatever the reasoning behind his abrupt change of heart, all of a sudden, something told him that maybe he was meant to be there in courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, nestled into seat number 8, present and accounted for until the bitter end of the John Breslin murder trial affair.
“I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let Jane or anyone else throw Breslin under a bus before we’ve even heard all of the evidence. Guilty or not, someone has to make sure that he gets a fair shake,” mumbled Newlan under his breath, and then in a booming voice that was as resolute as it was thundering, he further declared his intentions.
“On second thought, I changed my mind. I definitely don’t want to be chosen as an alternate,” announced Newlan, and his biting tone was clearly intended to send out an unspoken message, and that message was this; “there’s no way Breslin’s going down with this flimsy evidence if I have anything to say about it.”
Of course, not being one to back down, Jane ended the conversation by reiterating the same opinion that had ignited the debate in the first place; namely that one would have to be as crazy as a loon to devote all of this time diligently pondering witness testimony and evidentiary procedure, only to wind up without a say in the final disposition of the matter at hand.
Meanwhile, a conflicted Newlan could practically feel it all just slipping away. Ten minutes ago he was as good as gone, busted loose from the case like an inmate hurtling himself over the prison walls on a hell-bent jailbreak. But now however, he found himself helplessly thinking that he had no choice in the decision other than to somehow see it through to the acrid finish-line no matter how badly he wanted out; for in the final analysis, no one was going to question his resolve and get away with it, regardless of how desperately he had his heart set on walking away and never looking back.
Newlan suddenly envisioned himself playing the role of Al Pacino in The Godfather Part III, and he pictured himself acting out the scene where Don Michael Corleone infamously gripes, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”
The torment on Newlan’s face was palpable and he could almost hear the words of Dr. Clay’s letter calling out to him from his pocket. Even though he was now more determined than ever to stay the course, he couldn’t help but think to himself; “so close to being outta here…and yet so far away.”
And while Newlan stewed in the wings, Ron the bank manager mistakenly attributed the origins of his colleague’s painful facial vexations solely to Jane’s pointed remarks, and as such, he morphed into his customary peacemaker role, and he attempted to broker a resolution by resorting to his routinely effective tactic of changing the subject matter of the moment.
“Hey, by the way, has anyone else noticed that Gleason’s been working overtime trying to sling the dirt on Fred Miller any which way he can get away with?” wondered Ron, and without missing a beat, Newlan replied in his usual colorful fashion. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
No sooner had Newlan spoken when he realized that he had impulsively let an uncalled-for vulgarity slip out of his mouth; no sooner had he spoken when he realized that his sarcastically rhetorical question may not have been appropriate for this particular viewing audience; no sooner had he spoken when he realized that could have substituted a more suitable euphemism for his existential defecation musing.
The problem with Newlan, as with many people, was that, in a kneejerk reaction, he sometimes broke into the crude language which he utilized around his friends, without fully considering the consequences of his actions; without fully considering the nature of his surroundings. This same predicament had gotten Newlan into trouble at work on more than a few occasions, and now it appeared for all the world as if it was going to get him into hot water with his fellow jurors as well, so he took the high road and summarily apologized to one and all with all the sincerity he could muster. However, much to Newlan’s surprise, an apology appeared to be entirely unnecessary, seeing as how his colleagues unanimously seemed to find the slightly off-color maxim to be rather innocuous, not to mention more than a little bit humorous.
But unfortunately for the fragile goodwill of the jury, which was being held together by a thread, the harmony that was triggered by Newlan’s pun didn’t last very long, and all it took was for Jim, the usually self-effacing telecom employee, to harmlessly confront Newlan regarding the one anomaly of his red Mercury Mystique that he did happen to eyeball.
Jim had been waiting for just the right moment to ask Newlan about
what in his mind was a truly odd aberration, and he had wrongly assumed that the jovial mood currently emanating from the deliberation room would make for the perfect opportunity to broach the subject.
“By the way Frank, I noticed the other day that you have a “Question Authority” bumper sticker slapped onto the rear bumper of your car. Did you know that Fred Miller had the exact same bumper sticker on his car too?” wondered Jim, while at the same time Newlan’s demeanor shifted around the clock in a heartbeat from conciliatory all the way to shocking disbelief.
“I might have been aware of it,” cautiously replied Newlan, even though he in fact knew full well about the foreboding phenomenon that the bumper sticker (which when combined with the many strange happenings of recent days) represented; and furthermore, as he had feared from day one, -- ever since the occurrence of his bizarre Grateful Dead dream on the rocky bus ride to the murder scene in Newton, along with the unveiling of the obvious rebellious nature that he shared with the late Fred Miller -- these unmistakable warning signs had indeed turned out to be a precursor of things to come.
But of course, Jane wasn’t buying into any correlations between the two men whatsoever; literally or figuratively.
“So when did you go out and buy that bumper sticker?” quizzically asked Jane in an accusatory manner; she seemed to be insinuating that Newlan had added the bold fashion statement to his car quite recently, in some sort of perverted attempt at enhancing his connection to Fred Miller. And of course, Newlan didn’t care for her veiled remark in the least. And of course, he told her so in no uncertain terms.
“I’ll have you know that I’ve had that damned bumper sticker on my car for as long as I’ve owned the old jalopy…so please lay off of me,” angrily pleaded an offended Newlan, but Jane was utterly unimpressed by his ruffled feathers and she unapologetically replied in kind.
“Well I’m sorry, but all of these supposed coincidences seem kind of suspicious if you ask me.”
Jane’s accusation had Newlan teetering on the edge of his breaking point and he was surely just about ready to blow a gasket, but luckily for him, Mike the reticent car salesman, came to his defense in the nick of time.
“Actually, as I was driving home on the first day of the trial, I happened to be stuck in traffic behind Frank’s car and I saw the bumper sticker as well…which wasn’t surprising since it sticks out like a sore thumb. Anyway, I thought that it was pretty spooky at the time, but I wasn’t sure whether anyone else happened to notice that the same bumper sticker was also plastered on the back of Miller’s car, so I didn’t want to say anything for fear of influencing anyone, and more importantly for fear of freaking everyone out,” confirmed Mike in a matter-of-fact tone.
And upon digesting this remarkably uncanny and upsetting bit of news, Jane’s reply seemed to bellow the fact that she may have finally met her match, at least for the time being anyway.
“Well, now you really do have me freaked out…that is so eerie,” exclaimed Jane; except that on this occasion her voice was tinged with a hint of fear as she considered the implications behind Newlan’s seemingly otherworldly series of happenstances.
Newlan slowly pivoted his head around the deliberation room, studying his colleagues faces for a response, and he sensed that everyone was staring back at him as if he were some sort of crazy occultist; everyone that is, except for one juror. For out of the corner of his eye, Newlan observed that the fascinatingly lovely magazine editor, Natalie, was gaping at him. And furthermore, it was with what could only be described as an awe-inspired look of wonderment that she gazed at him, and not a stare of trepidation in the least.
As far Newlan was concerned, Natalie’s glimmering glimpse, Natalie’s shimmering ray of sunshine, Natalie’s simmering sliver of sensuality, was enough to brighten his spirits ten times over; and for that matter it was enough to bring eyesight to the blind; it was enough for the ever concupiscent Newlan to slyly return the glance of his secret admirer and mutter to himself, “Yes indeed, we can officially declare that the heat wave is on…now that the Ice Princess has been completely thawed out.”
But innocent flirtations aside, by now it was almost 10 AM and mercifully for the beleaguered Frank Newlan and the rest of the jurors, they were finally called into the courtroom to reprise their leading roles in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts’ stage-crafted quest for justice. Clearly, the tensions that were heating up between Jane and Newlan had nearly reached a boiling point which left them just about ready to totally unload their frustrations on each other, and so, as uncharacteristic as it sounds, mulling over witness testimony came as a welcome respite from their near constant bickering.
For her part, Judge Gershwin seemed to somehow sense the strain that was building up under the skin of each and every one of the jurors, and as a small gesture of her appreciation, she went out of her way to praise them.
After the crowded gallery was seated and settled in, the honorable judge turned towards the jury box, and with a bright, cheerful voice, she gushed, “And good morning to our extraordinary jurors.”
And then, just like that, without further ado it was on to more important housekeeping. Once Judge Gershwin had dispensed with the usual conventional inquiries regarding whether any of the jurors had discussed or researched the case, she addressed the matter of the clearly conspicuous empty seat at the near end of the jury box.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury as you can see, one of your colleagues has been excused due to a transportation issue…but as I stated at the start of the trial, situations such as this are precisely the reason why we have four extra jurors assigned to each case,” patiently explained Judge Gershwin. And with that, another long, grueling week in the John Breslin murder trial was officially underway.
The morning began with DA Lyons calling a parade of employees from Tex-Ray Defense Systems to the stand, each of whom apparently possessed a wealth of information regarding one Mr. John Breslin.
DA Lyons had each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers present the jurors with reams of glum details pertaining to his pending divorce. DA Lyons also had each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers informed the jurors of his sometimes odd behavior on the days and weeks leading up to the murder of Fred Miller. But most importantly, DA Lyons had each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers forage into great depth regarding his relationship with a certain Ms. Nancy O’Brien.
However, after a few hours of documenting this strategic line of questioning into his notepad, Frank Newlan for one, was exasperated.
“Alright already…we get the picture. Nancy O’Brien was a friend of Breslin’s. How many people do we need to tell us the same thing over and over again before it reaches the point of diminishing returns?” grumbled Newlan. And furthermore, in Newlan’s opinion, for the most part, the testimony of Breslin’s co-workers was doing more to hurt the prosecution’s case than it was to help it.
As a matter of fact, as far as Newlan was concerned, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason’s cross-examination of the “Tex-Ray gang” (as Newlan not so affectionately dubbed them) was quite compelling, and furthermore, it allowed the cunning barrister to delve even deeper into the “human side” of his client.
Gleason got each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he was quoted as saying that much he missed his children dearly. Gleason also got each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he shed a tear as he discussed his children. But most importantly, Gleason also got each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he expressed grave concerns about the welfare of his children.
Gleason then went on to get each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to recount how he had become noticeably subdued and withdrawn over the course of the divorce proceedings, with one co-worker going so far as to describing Tracy and John Breslin’s disintegrating marriage as “very sad”. But on the other hand, Gleason
also got each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he had expressed a firm commitment to work out his problems with his wife.
And furthermore, for a bit of icing on the cake, Gleason got each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to state that, in their opinion, he was “a good guy”.
However, even though Gleason considered the revelations of Breslin’s co-workers to be good theatre, he realized that he still needed to produce something much more substantial if he was going to succeed at heading DA Lyons off at the pass, and since he was not one to be outdone, he skillfully got each and every one of Breslin’s co-workers to recount, in vivid detail, the manner in which they were treated by the police, and how the detectives attempted to put words into their mouths; ironically in much the same manner that he and DA Lyons were now attempting to put words into their mouths.
Gleason went on to relentlessly harp on the fact that not one of Breslin’s co-workers had observed him acting even the least bit suspiciously on the day of the murder, which led Newlan to believe that DA Lyons must have been desperate to drill the Nancy O’Brien connection into the jurors’ heads. Otherwise, why else would she have allowed them to be exposed to all of this glowing testimony on Breslin’s behalf?
One of the Tex-Ray witnesses, a gentleman by the name of Richard Galvin, happened to share an office with Breslin, and he recounted a conversation, which he couldn’t help but to overhear, between Breslin and his erstwhile wife, where the forlorn defendant matter-of-factly stated, “I’m sorry Tracy, but you brought this on yourself.”
Galvin testified that after the phone call he picked Breslin’s brain as to what the dispute was all about, and he went on to say that Breslin informed him that his wife needed money, and that he wasn’t intending on giving her a single penny more than what his lawyer said she was entitled to.
And on and on it went throughout the morning, with one Breslin co-worker after another taking the stand.
But as morning turned into early afternoon (and after being marched in and out of the courtroom three times due to the obligatory objections and subsequent disputes), the jurors were at long last allowed to recess for lunch break.
Contrary to the discordance of the morning, the jurors were in a reasonably good mood during the lunch hour (especially for a Monday) and they made quick work of their free meals. And as they munched away at their sandwiches, out of the blue, in a voice tinged with mock pride, Stan the affable software salesman exclaimed, “Did anybody else picked up on how Judge Gershwin was fawning all over us…and how she went out of her way to refer to us an extraordinary jury?”
“Sure, but I bet she says that to all the juries,” purred Newlan in an equally mock tantalizing tone, without ever really considering the comic value of his faux wager. But nevertheless, his unrehearsed one-liner elicited a reflexive outburst of laughter amongst his casual acquaintances on the jury.
Although Newlan never considered himself to be much of a comedian, his friends always felt as if he possessed a quick wit, which was borne out by the fact that on many an occasion, he had them in stitches after delivering a well-timed wisecrack.
In any event, other than his brusque witticism, the remainder of Newlan’s lunch hour was uneventful for a change, and he spent the rest of the break catching up on his Rolling Stone magazines, while at the same time Billy led a handful of jurors on a stroll down to the outdoor garage for their daily fresh air break (and of course, so that Annie could inhale a cigarette or two).
Everyone in the walking party, including Billy, was still in a good spirits upon their return from the hastily arranged field trip, and whenever one of these moods struck him, Billy would find himself hanging around in the deliberation room, chatting-it-up with any juror who was willing to listen. Not surprisingly, the female jurors attempted to steer the conversation in the direction of Billy’s personal life. Where he lived? Was he married? How many kids did he have? And so on and so forth.
Like most outgoing, Type ‘A’ personalities, Billy enjoyed talking about himself, and he proudly passed around photographs of the wife and kids. And as far as where he lived, he was also quite proud of the fact that he was a life-long resident of Northtown; a tiny section of Boston that sat nestled in between what was once the predominantly Italian North End and the mostly Irish Charlestown.
Perhaps there truly is something about a man in uniform, or perhaps there was something intoxicating about Billy’s thick Boston accent, but whatever it was, the fact remains that he had the ladies of the jury hanging on his every word, and they pressed him for the full 411 regarding what it was like growing up in Northtown. But alas, as Billy was quick to point out, the ever-growing homogenization of the old neighborhood had permanently altered the closeness of the community for the worse.
“Ever since all those yuppies came storming in, it’s nothing like it use to be. They must have bought up every building in sight and then they gutted them and turned them into these fancy, expensive condos…which drove out just about every working class Irish and Italian family in the entire district. But what’s even worse is that most of the little family-run, mom-and-pop businesses got taken over by the big chain-store conglomerates. Yup, it really has changed…so much so that I’ve even thought about moving out to the suburbs myself. But of course, after all these years I’m so entrenched in what little that’s left of the community that it would be hard for me to ever leave the place,” expounded Billy with a pensive sigh.
And while Billy’s thoughtful conversation was all well and good, unlike the women, Mike the car salesman had something gnawing on his brain that he just had to unload on the chatty court officer; something a lot more topical and relevant than the changing face of a few city blocks.
“I heard that Sammy the Fox was originally from Northtown,” nonchalantly spilled out Mike with a playful look etched all over his face. But Billy wasn’t the least bit amused.
“How’d you know that?” testily asked the puzzled court officer.
Oh, it’s no big deal…it’s just that some of my old friends happen to be from your part of town and they may have mentioned it in passing. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of looking them up for a few drinks…I bet you they could give me the complete lowdown on old Sammy the Fox,” calmly explained Mike, as Billy sneered at him in disdainful contempt. However, just as Billy was about to explode in anger over this blatant violation of juror misconduct, Mike hastily added, “After the end of the trial of course.”
Naturally, Mike’s revelation prompted a couple of the more brazen jurors, Jane being one of them, to curiously inquire as to whether Billy was at all familiar with Sammy the Fox.
And suddenly Billy had a confused look sprawled upon his face, as if he was debating whether to answer the question or to make a hasty retreat from the room. But in the end, he cautiously replied, “no, but I know of people who know him.”
From that six-degrees-of-separation tangent, Billy and Mike proceeded to throw a handful of names out for discussion, and as it turned out, they shared a smattering of common acquaintances.
“Small world!” declared Mike and Billy simultaneously, and the serendipity of their declaration managed to wedge a slight smile back onto both of their faces.
“Yeah, just about everyone from Northtown knows one another…or they know someone who knows someone if you catch my drift,” sleepily drawled Billy as the conversation meandered along to its eventual conclusion…and before they knew it, Brandon popped his head in the door and announced that it was “5 minutes to show time.”
Brandon’s news forced an involuntary grimace to appear on Newlan’s face…and so as not to be misunderstood, he went on to pontificate his dismay to no one in particular.
“Damn it, the lunch hour goes by so fast, and the rest of the day seems to drag on forever.”
Of course on this point there was unanimous agreement for a change; and yet the solidarity amongst the jurors did no
thing to brighten Newlan’s mood.
But regardless of Newlan’s mood swings, the show must go on as they say, and as such, the afternoon session started off much as the morning did, except that now the jurors were forced to listen to the musings of the patrons who frequented the Irish-American club in Watertown Massachusetts where Breslin worked a night job as a part-time bartender.
DA Lyons called upon four patrons of the private club, just to basically establish the fact that Breslin tended bar, as he always did, on the Friday night of Fred Miller’s murder; just as he did practically every Friday night for those past several years. And while she was at it, Lyons also attempted, with mixed results, to get Breslin’s Irish-American Club cohorts to admit to the fact that they were aware of his impending divorce, as well as his obsessive desire to keep Fred Miller away from his children.
For his part, Gleason easily enticed these same patrons to heap mounds of praise upon Breslin while Lyons could do nothing but stew in the wings. It was only when Gleason coaxed one of the club’s long time patrons, a gentleman by the name of Dean Bennett, to proclaim that “Johnny never, ever mentioned harming Fred Miller…that would be totally out of character for him,” did Lyons object, and Judge Gershwin immediately had the speculative latter portion of Bennett’s comment stricken from the record.
“Well, it might be stricken from the record but it’s too late to strike it from my mind,” silently declared a semi-dazed Newlan as he forced himself to pay attention even though visions of Marianne Plante’s smoldering, supple body were causing him to lose focus on a regular basis. On the other hand, now that things were beginning to heat up again in this tension-filled, almost sexual, dual between Lyons and Gleason, he pledged to kick up his awareness level a notch or two and lock it into place.
And while Newlan coaxed his mind back into clarity, the next witness to take the stand was the chairman of the Watertown chapter of the Irish-American club, Sean Patton.
Mr. Patton was an elderly man, who, despite his many years living in the US, still possessed a thick Irish brogue; and on top of that, he appeared to be utterly confounded by the courtroom surroundings which he had somehow found himself drawn into, almost like a cat stuck in a tree.
DA Lyons must have spent a good half hour directing Mr. Patton to wax poetically about every little detail that went into governing a private organization such as the Irish-American club, but eventually she got down to the crux of his testimony, and that was to produce records which showed that Breslin closed the club on the night of January 13th, 2006.
Lyons had Patton explain how the security system at the club worked, and how each employee was given a distinct code which was used to turn the burglar alarm off and on. She then produced a printout which indicated that employee number 10 had set the alarm on at 23:05 (or 11:05 PM) on the night in question.
“And who was employee number 10?” patiently asked Lyons.
“That would be John Breslin,” tentatively answered Patton. And with that, Lyons submitted the printout into evidence, while Gleason on the other hand had nary a question to present to Mr. Patton.
The next witness to take the stand identified himself as Jim Wheeler, an employee from a company called RKN Telecommunications.
Mr. Wheeler was a tall, awkward man who nevertheless maintained an air of confidence about him that bordered on arrogance.
DA Lyons permitted the mid 30ish Wheeler to indulge the jurors in a long litany of boring facts pertaining to the phone industry, and by all accounts, he seemed to be enjoying his moment in the spotlight immensely.
Lyons primary reason for calling upon Wheeler was to have him identify the activation date of a particular phone calling card, and when Wheeler finally got off of his soapbox, he expertly interpreted the phone records for the calling card in question; phone records, incidentally, which were subpoenaed by the DA’s office.
Specifically, Wheeler determined that the first call made from this particular card was at 10:20 AM on the morning of January 6th, 2006, and that the last call was at 1:05 PM on the afternoon of January 12th, 2006. And furthermore, each and every call placed from this specific card was directed to the exact same phone number, 978 211-6545; a phone number belonging to one Mr. Samuel Fox.
Newlan shifted anxiously in his swivel chair as he digested the significance of the calling card information and he scribbled his thoughts into his notepad for prosperity:
The prosecution finally seems to have some evidence pointing to possible suspicious activity by Breslin, but I’m still not quite convinced (not yet anyway!).
When Lyons had completed the process of pounding the calling card information into the jurors’ heads like a butcher tenderizing a cut of low-grade meat, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason realized that he had his work cut out for him, and as he slowly approached the witness stand he began his valiant attempt at putting the information which Jim Wheeler had just presented into some sort of proper perspective.
“Mr. Wheeler wouldn’t you agree that a phone calling card is an inexpensive way to make a phone call and that it represents a good consumer value?” asked Gleason, and Wheeler immediately went into salesman mode, albeit a bit too overenthusiastically for some of the jurors.
“Yes, these cards are a fantastic value! In fact you can make most local calls for as little as a penny per minute,” exclaimed Wheeler in an exaggerated tone which made it sound as if he were a pitchman for one of those late night TV commercials where they hawk everything and anything that’s of little or no use to the average person.
“And these cards are often sold as promotional items aren’t they Mr. Wheeler?” added Gleason.
“Yes indeed. You could consider them to be an impulse item, which is why we work with our distributors to place the cards near the cash registers in many major department stores,” confessed Wheeler.
“Now Mr. Wheeler, if a person using one of these cards were to place a call that went into voice mail, the call would still be considered billable, wouldn’t it?” queried Gleason.
“Absolutely” confirmed Wheeler.
“And Mr. Wheeler even with your encyclopedic knowledge of all things phone related, you would have no way of knowing whether any of the calls identified in these phone records were answered by a person or whether they went into voice mail, isn’t that true?” demanded Gleason as he held up the subpoenaed phone records which DA Lyons had just submitted into evidence.
Gleason’s logical chain of inquiries had a riveting affect on the courtroom audience, and the hushed silence only served to further heighten the already rapt attention of one Mr. Frank Newlan.
“That SOB Gleason…if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that he just tried to get a little dig in on this pompous bastard Wheeler,” mumbled an astonished Newlan, while at the same time Wheeler brightly replied, “that would be correct sir.”
“No further questions,” announced Gleason, and with that, Mr. Jim Wheeler paraded from the stand with his head held high; and with that, Mr. Jim Wheeler strutted from the stand with a noticeable lilt clicking in his heels; and with that, Mr. Jim Wheeler departed from the stand with a singular sense of purpose in mind.
In fact, as soon as Wheeler exited the courthouse, he head straight for the media tent, earnestly looking for the nearest TV camera he could find; and it was his sincere hope that he might turn his big day into an even bigger coup by procuring some face-time on the local news.
At that point in the proceeding, Judge Gershwin called for another respite, and the jurors pretty much spent their entire coffee break joking about what an egotistical clown that Mr. Jim Wheeler turned out to be.
Upon their return into the courtroom, the jurors were greeted with the last witness of the long, drawn-out day, Sergeant Terry McDonald, from the Massachusetts State Police.
Sergeant McDonald was a supervisor on the State Police homicide team, and on Friday January the 13th, 2006 he was called upon to provide his expert services at the scene of
the Fred Miller homicide investigation.
Among other things, the jurors learned that Sergeant McDonald attended Fred Miller’s autopsy, and they learned that he had inventoried the belongings which were taken from Miller’s person; belongings which included 541 dollars, a vile containing 42 white oval pills, a baggy containing 20 small packets of a white powdery substance, and another baggy which contained what appeared to be 10 hand-rolled cigarettes.
As one might imagine, this tidbit of information had Newlan scribbling furiously into his notebook, and all the while he was thinking, “It looks like Breslin isn’t the only person in this investigation who was involved in some suspicious activity.”
But regardless of Newlan’s observations, as Sergeant McDonald’s testimony continued to take shape, the jurors learned that he had personally interviewed most of the witnesses in the case, including many of Breslin’s co-workers, which eventually led the authorities in the direction of Nancy O’Brien.
McDonald also organized a flyer drop at the scene of the murder, which, as he explained it, involved handing out informational bulletins and posting them in store windows and on telephone poles in and about the general vicinity of the Newton garage. Unfortunately however, Sergeant McDonald was obliged to admit that this “getting the word out” strategy turned up no useful information.
And on Saturday morning January 21st, 2006, Sergeant McDonald, in a clever, although not entirely uncommon, move, arranged for the trash cans which were placed in front of the elderly Mrs. Breslin’s home to get picked up, not by the garbage man, but by the State Police; and from there, the entire messy haul was delivered to the State Police Crime Lab where it was painstakingly examined for possible evidence.
“And what if anything did you find?” wondered DA Lyons in a bright curious tone.
“We found a few credit card receipts, we found an empty cardboard container which depicted a pair of binoculars on the front of it, we found a couple of old locks, we found a booklet that contained records such as addresses, phone numbers, and the like, written in it,” meticulously reported Sergeant McDonald.
Newlan could tell by the enthralling look on his colleagues’ faces that they were eating up the sergeant’s story. But all the while, he himself remained skeptical, and the words he jotted down into his notepad clearly bellowed his skepticism.
If this was incriminating evidence, then why the hell would Breslin dump it in the trash where anyone could find it, without even shredding it? If you ask me, there’s something rotten in Denmark, and it’s not the garage!
However, as Newlan scribbled away, Lyons forged on with her methodical reenactment of the so-called “trash pull”.
“Did you find anything else Sergeant McDonald?” asked DA Lyons in an insistent tone.
“Ooooh yeah…but you don’t wanna know,” joked McDonald as he held his nose and contorted his face into a disgusted look. But unfortunately for the dutiful Sergeant McDonald, his amateurish attempts at humor were met with complete silence, and he actually had one juror, who shall remain nameless, thinking to himself, “oh sure, like your shit doesn’t stink Mr. Big Shot detective.”
Meanwhile, Lyons ignored McDonald’s comedy routine and carried on without missing a beat.
“Sergeant McDonald did the evidence from the trash pull lead you in the direction of any additional information?” wondered the no-nonsense DA Lyons.
“Yes, we were able to trace one of the credit card receipts to a Walmart in Northborough Massachusetts. And from there we were able to determine that the credit card was used to purchase a prepaid phone calling card for nine dollars and ninety nine cents,” explained a suddenly dead serious Sergeant McDonald.
“I see, and who was the provider of the calling card in question?” continued Lyons in the best inquisitive tone she could muster.
“We were able to trace the calling card to a company by the name of RKN Telecommunications Services,” informed Sergeant McDonald as he tilted his bifocals down toward a notebook which was resting in his lap.
“Now Sergeant McDonald could you please tell the jurors how you went about tracking this information,” politely requested Lyons.
“Well, we started out with Walmart, and we obtained a court order for their records, which led us to the Credit Card Company, as well as to RKN Telecom,” explained Sergeant McDonald with the swagger of a man who held in his hands the power to dig up dirt on any man in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, living or dead.
“And who was the credit card registered to?” wondered Lyons in a condescending tone.
Sergeant McDonald put on his glasses again, and for some reason, he read his answer from his notebook , even though every person in the courtroom with even half a brain in their heads knew precisely what he was about to say.
“The credit card belonged to a Mr. John Breslin,” triumphantly announced Sergeant McDonald,
“And how about the phone card?” gleefully added Lyons.
“We worked with a gentleman from RKN Telecom by the name of Jim Wheeler, and he was able to provide us with a detailed record of the usage of the calling card in question, including the fact that every call that was made on this particular card was directed to phone number 978 211-6545…a number which was traced back to a Mr. Samuel Fox,” elucidated a smiling Sergeant McDonald.
“And what happened after that?” wondered the tenacious DA.
“Well, it took many months of investigation, including placing Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox under 24 hour surveillance, as well as obtaining search warrants and phone taps, but eventually we obtained enough evidence to charge Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox with the murder of Fred Miller,” elaborated an exultant Sergeant McDonald.
“No further questions your honor,” exclaimed DA Lyons, but before she had even finished her sentence, Gleason approached the podium posthaste.
“Now Gleason’s really gonna have to start earning his keep…so let’s see what he can do up there,” croaked Newlan to himself in his exaggerated sportscaster’s tone, and not surprisingly Gleason wasted no time in getting to the point.
“Sergeant McDonald, were the white pills, or the packets of a white powdery substance, or the hand-rolled cigarettes, ever tested to determine the nature of these substances?” demanded Gleason straight out, without even the hint of subtly.
“No sir they weren’t,” replied Sergeant McDonald in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was put off by the question.
“And why was that?” wondered Gleason.
“Well, because the man was dead, so the identity of these items seemed irrelevant to me,” elucidated Sergeant McDonald as he stared down the retreating Gleason.
“I see, Sergeant McDonald, I see” muttered Gleason and he turned his back on both the seething detective and the influential Judge Gershwin as he announced, “No further questions your honor.”
By the time Sergeant McDonald wrapped up his testimony, it was close to 5 PM, so Judge Gershwin had no choice but to dismiss the jurors for the day; but of course not before, as always, reminding them not to discuss the case with anyone, including their fellow jurors.
And yet, amazingly enough, within seconds of entering the deliberation room the jurors had already disobeyed the prudent judge’s instructions, while in the process, showing a total lack of disregard for her supreme eminence.
“Now things are really starting to get interesting,” asserted the wheelchair-bound Dan, but his comment was nothing compared to what was about to come down next.
“I was so impressed by Sergeant McDonald’s testimony, and how he was smart enough to have the police search through Breslin’s trash. Can you believe how stupid he was?” bellowed Jane…and predictably enough, Newlan jumped right into the fray.
“That’s just the problem, I can’t believe he was that stupid,” retorted Newlan, “because if that receipt had anything whatsoever to do with the murder, then there’s no way he throws it in the trash two weeks after the fact without even r
ipping it up. He could have thrown the receipt away the day he bought the calling card…he could have burned it in an ashtray…he could have flushed it down the toilet…but no, he puts in the trash where anyone can find it…it just doesn’t make any sense,” incredulously insisted Newlan.
“So what, are you calling Sergeant McDonald a liar?” implored Jane, and suddenly Newlan felt as if fourteen pairs of eyes were staring at him, demanding an answer.
“I’m not saying he’s a liar. But what I am saying is that, in my opinion, something seems fishy about this evidence. I’m sorry, but that’s how I see it,” asserted Newlan with an obstinate shake of the head, and naturally his comments were met with an outraged barrage of rebuttal.
“Hey you’re all entitled to your own opinions…and I’m entitled to mine,” stubbornly declared Newlan, and with that, he ended the day just as it had begun. That is to say, he ended the day with just about every one of his fellow jurors upset with him over his audacity to still believe that John Breslin was innocent…until proven guilty…beyond a reasonable doubt.