Prologue – Built to Last?
Friday morning January 13, 2006 – 7:45 AM
Fred Miller and his 1999 blue Nissan Maxima were both running on empty as he pulled into a small, dilapidated garage next to an equally antiquated office building located in Newton Massachusetts.
The complex, which served as the headquarters for Fred’s place of employment, The Barron Insurance Agency, was his central base, and his cubicle was his comfy little home-away-from-home; it was the place where he focused on completing the countless mundane menial tasks that were required of all low-level customer service representatives, like himself, who worked within the small firm’s tangled hierarchy. Although on days like today, the plan for Fred was to do as little work as possible.
On days like today, the plan for Fred, as well as for his car, was to crawl along on fumes until he had a chance to refill both of their tanks. On days like today, Job One on the agenda was to conserve as much energy as possible, in a futile attempt to recharge both of their batteries, just in time for another round of rollicking abuse.
Like Fred and his automobile, the garage and the adjacent office building had both seen better days. The run-down office building was the exact opposite of those fancy high rise deals in Boston where some of Fred’s friends worked. It was a threadbare four story edifice with the year 1920 neatly carved into the cement at the foot of the building’s entrance.
The decaying, covered garage, which was in a general state of disrepair, was a one story structure with room for about 15 parking spots on either side, as well as another 30 spots on the rooftop level. And furthermore, the interior of the garage, which was plagued by a perpetual musty odor, was dark and dank, and the sooty exhaust-fume-coated ceiling was supported by a row of concrete slab beams which were showing serious signs of deterioration.
Fred, who occasionally suffered from bouts of paranoia, believed that the garage, what with its fading graffiti, its numerous patches of burned-out florescent light bulbs, and its lack of exits (other than the one opening where cars pulled in and out of), would be the perfect place for a robbery, and he shivered at the thought of it on this cold, gray morning.
Even though Fred was well aware of the fact that Newton, which was a swank suburb situated about ten miles west of Boston, had a very low crime rate, and that it was actually named one of the safest cities in America for the second year in a row, that didn’t stop his irrational fear. He was a big believer in the old saying, “there’s always a first time for everything”.
When Fred was in one of those unsettled moods, his brain would sometimes fixate on the cracks in the foundation of the garage and his imagination would get the better of him; and on the rare occasions when he found himself in a particularly freaked-out state, the swirling cracks in the ground of the garage would come to life and pour into the drain of his trippy mind, like the rushing water of a sewer hole. And when these disturbing visions reached the inexorable point where they overwhelmed his senses, he’d become frenetically convinced that someday the whole pile of bricks was going to collapse on top of him and put a merciful end to the drudgery of his monotonous daily routine.
The aforementioned garage was more than half empty at this hour of the morning, but it would soon be filling up with Fred’s co-workers as well as an assortment of customers who parked in the facility whenever they visited the various business establishments in the area.
As per usual for the regimented insurance industry, Fred recognized a few of his co-workers cars already parked in the same spots they always parked in. This often reminded him of how, when he was in school, and even now as an adult at company meetings, certain people would always lay claim to the same corner of the room, even though there weren’t any assigned seating plans.
Fred vaguely remembered some sort of psychology experiment on this subject from his college days, and he was the type of person who took pleasure in shaking things up every now and then, so he would occasionally park in a different spot, or sit at a different seat in the conference room, if for no other reason than just to be different. With that in mind, Fred was thinking about parking in the spot adjacent to where he normally parked. But unfortunately, an unfamiliar, dented-up red car had already staked out that location, so at the last second he pulled into his usual spot halfway down on the right hand side, directly opposite the weathered old red car.
With his car safely parked, Fred glanced at his watch and went through his ritualistic daily checklist of activities before heading into the office just in time for the 8 o’clock Friday morning sales briefing. The first item on the list was a quick peek in the rearview mirror for the purpose of performing a red-eye self-examination; although, most of the time he wasn’t sure why he even bothered checking, since his eyes were invariably bloodshot just about every morning and in need of a refreshing Visine bath.
Fred had been out drinking last night, late into the evening, and he was somewhat startled by the tired soul with the unfashionably long hair that he eyed staring back at him in the mirror.
Fred, although only 39, thought to himself that he must be getting old. He remembered the days just after college when he could stay out until 4 AM (or even pull an all-nighter) on a Thursday night, and then go to work the next day without much of a problem.
“Just turn on that metaphorical old cruise control and run on auto-pilot,” humorously mumbled Fred, half out loud, to his own reflection. He might be getting older, but he could still fool the stuffy bastards that he worked with. If only they knew what his life was like outside of the office…they couldn’t even begin to imagine his gluttonous habits. But then, on the other hand, he rebelliously concluded, “old man Barron can put down a bottle of bourbon with the best of them, so who are they to judge.”
One way or another, we all have our fair share of skeletons buried deep within our closets, and of all people, Fred Miller recognized that he was right up there at the top of the heap in that department. And as such, even though the bloodshot eyes might be alarming to the average person, they should come as no surprise in Fred Miller’s case, when you consider that a segment of his morning routine also included smoking half a joint during the thirteen mile cruise from his small house in Framingham Massachusetts to his office in Newton, while at the same time listening to his beloved classic rock music on the cheap, factory delivered CD player that he had installed in the dash of his 99 Nissan.
This morning’s CD selection was “Built to Last” by his favorite band, the Grateful Dead, and Fred hummed along as strains of the melancholic title song droned in the background.
The music was a perfect complement to the euphoric rush of the reefer, which was kicking in big time as Fred opened his mouth and took in a double blast of breath spray, and then gave the cabin a triple blast of air freshener.
Fred still had about ten minutes to kill so he decided to ring up his new girlfriend, Tracy Breslin, for a quick chat. To be precise, although they had been dating for only a few months, Tracy wasn’t literally a “new girlfriend”. In reality, they had been acquainted with each other since high school, and had dated off and on in their younger years before they had a less than cordial parting of the ways.
After their breakup, Tracy went off and got married and had three children while Fred continued his nomadic, fun-loving (albeit self-destructive) lifestyle, well into his middle-age years, all the while showing no signs of slowing down…until recently that is.
Fred had heard through the grapevine that Tracy’s marriage was on the rocks, but nonetheless he was as surprised as could be when he received a rapid succession of postcards, phone messages, and letters from Tracy, just a matter of months ago.
Despite his curiosity, Fred didn’t immediately respond to Tracy’s correspondences. He wasn’t altogether sure whether he wanted to get caught up the middle of that emotional whirlwind again. Lord knows she put him through some Hell in their younger days. But as it turned out, now that they were s
eeing each other again, he was sincerely beginning to enjoy her company, and he found himself constantly wondering what it would be like to get into her pants again after all these years.
“If nothing else,” daydreamed Fred, “Tracy was a fantastic lover, that’s for sure.”
But be that as it may, since Tracy was in the midst of a bitter divorce, she was utterly overwhelmed by her circumstances, and she deemed it necessary to put off the intimacy component of her relationship with Fred until she was in a better frame of mind to take their romance back up to the next level.
Fred realized that he and Tracy were currently not much more than just extra-close friends, but he had a hunch that things were going to start heating up pretty soon, and so he waited patiently in anticipation of that magical moment of surrender.
Fred pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tracy’s number, and she picked up the phone immediately after the first ring. In this age of caller ID she knew full well that it was him on the other end of the line and she greeted him in a bright voice for this hour of the day, considering that neither of them was much of a morning person.
“Good morning Freddie. I had great time last night. What’s up?”
“Not me sweet cheeks…I guess we’re getting too old to party on a work night. Anyway, just wanted to call and wish you a happy Friday the 13th,” moaned Fred.
“Oh come on, we’re not that old…and don’t kid around about Friday the 13th. Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘don’t tempt fate’?” laughed Tracy.
“How’s this for tempting fate? Why don’t you try getting rid of those animals you call kids for the weekend…and then maybe we can make a getaway out to the Berkshires like the old days,” replied Fred in a hopeful tone.
Tracy wanted to go for it so badly, but since her divorce wasn’t finalized just yet, she was hesitant to make that leap of faith; and as Fred kind of half-expected, she was noncommittal in her response.
And yet, although Tracy’s estranged husband seemed to be able to manipulate her at will, she knew she held one trump card; that being her womanly charms. All she had to do was whisper something suggestive in her husband’s ear and she would have him wrapped around her finger so tightly that she could get him to do just about anything she wanted; so, obviously, getting rid of the kids for a couple of days wasn’t the problem. No, the problem was that she was notoriously indecisive. She still wasn’t quite sure whether she was ready to sleep with Fred again, and so she said only; “I’ll see what I can do honey.”
“OK, I’ll call you later,” sighed Fred somewhat disappointedly.
“Luv ya,” blurted Tracy just before Fred hung up the phone.
“Oh well persistence will pay off…and at least I gave it a shot,” thought Fred as he gave himself a rather unconvincing pep-talk.
After enduring the fruitless phone call, Fred still had a few minutes to spare, and a dilemma on his hands. As usual, he was running late when he woke up this morning and he had no time for breakfast, so he had to decide whether to run over to the Dunkin Donuts for a caffeine-and-sugar blast, or go for a cocaine pick-me-up. And being the lazy dude that he was, he decided to go for the cocaine snort since he would neither have to leave the comfort of his car, nor would he have to deal with the stoner’s “rush of confusion” that was sure to develop as he fought his way through the inevitable line that forms at just about every unit of the famed New England franchise on a workday morning.
Fred also had the urge to sweep the disappointment of his latest conversation with Tracy under the rug of his mind; and what better way to achieve that goal than a little bit of self-medicating?
Fred fumbled around in his pockets for a plastic baggy that contained 21 packets of cocaine. He also pulled out a wad of bills, which totaled 541 dollars, looking for a hundred dollar bill, which he could have sworn was buried amongst the tens and twenties.
“Oh well,” stammered Fred as he settled for a fifty and got down to business. He expertly rolled up the bill, chopped up a dash of the crystallized powder on the plastic Grateful Dead CD jewel box, which depicted a house of cards on the cover, and he inhaled the line of blow up his nose like a vacuum cleaner cutting through a mound of dust.
“Aaaah that felt good,” exclaimed Fred as he sniffed the last specks of cakey snow up his nostril. Now he was finally feeling good enough to be able to take on another day and bring another week to an end so that he could commence to get his real party on at 5 PM sharp.
Fred took a deep breath, checked his hair in the mirror, turned off the engine, and began to push open the car door when he inexplicably lost his grip on the handle; the door had somehow mysteriously swung open on its own, and Fred was startled to see a figure hovering over him, invading his personal space.
Regrettably, due to his morning buzz, Fred never noticed the shadowy man slip in behind him from some dark corner of the garage and pull open the door just as he was making his way out of the car.
But regardless of his impaired condition, Fred immediately recovered from his surprise, and suddenly he felt very lucid, just like the countless times he got pulled over by the police while driving high as a kite. He was very proud of the fact that he had never gotten arrested (at least not for driving intoxicated) and he would brag to his friends about this fact whenever the topic came up.
Fred was often known to pontificate about his tolerance for mind-altering substances and his ability to neutralize their effects (his standard claim was something to the affect that an adrenaline rush will straighten you up every time). Fred was also known to be a hot-tempered kind of guy, and although he wasn’t all that muscular, he could take care of himself with the fists. As a matter of fact, he once broke a man’s collarbone in a fight, and he had beaten up more than his fair share of unsuspecting tough guys over the years.
Fred presumed that maybe his robbery premonition was finally coming true, but he wasn’t going to give this asshole a dime. He looked straight into the soulless, dilated eyes of the stranger and shouted; “What’s your problem motherfucker?”
And with that probing shot to the bow, Fred made a push to get out of his car. But before he could so much as move a muscle, a 38 caliber pistol appeared out of nowhere. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. He could clearly see the barrel of the gun staring him in his face, and the cold dark cylinder, when viewed from this close-up vantage point, seemed a lot bigger than he thought it should be.
At that point, Fred’s survival instincts took over and he yelled out, “oh shit, somebody help me.” However, his plea for assistance was more of a gut reaction than it was a true attempt at summonsing help. There were no two ways about it, he was on his own on this one, and he knew it, just as sure as the day he was born. The monumental task of upending an armed opponent was comparable to an alley cat taking on a rabid bulldog, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Not knowing what else to do, he tried to duck back into the cabin of his car while at the same time bringing his left leg up in a frantic swipe to kick at his foe’s body.
All of a sudden, Fred didn’t think that this man had robbery on his mind…but murder. Lord knows he had made his share of enemies over the years, but despite his suspicious tendencies, he never really imagined that someone would truly attempt to kill him; even though he did confess to a few friends recently that he had been troubled of late by a visceral sinking feeling, which appeared to be warning him that he might end up with a bullet hole in his head someday.
But in the end, no matter what Fred believed, his plight was real, and disastrously for him, his defensive strike was unsuccessful. For at the same moment that his leg was reaching up to boot his assailant in the balls, a shot rang out and hit him squarely in the left cheekbone. The bullet then passed though the lower right side of his neck, just by the spinal cord, and landed in the rubbery vinyl arm rest on the passenger-side door of his car.
Just before the bullet crushed Fred’s face, the last so
unds he ever heard was the metallic voice of his unknown enemy showering him with a few final words of wisdom; “payback’s a bitch you fuckin’ prick.”
And with his vengeful mission accomplished, the assassin calmly slammed shut the door of the car, which wasn’t much of a problem since Fred’s legs sprang back into the driver’s seat, presumably recoiled into place by the force of the bullet, or possibly by some sort of involuntary spasm. The murderer then casually stepped away from the vehicle, and like a magician he seemingly vanished into thin air. Amazingly, despite the daylight hours, and despite the number of people wandering through the busy neighborhood, the translucent triggerman was never seen or heard from by any of the witnesses the police would later interview.
Sometime within the next few seconds, or minutes, or maybe longer, no one would ever know for sure, the unidentified red car slowly pulled out of the garage, much like the ruthless killer, also never to be seen again, or more accurately, never to be positively identified.
The fatal blow left Fred’s lifeblood, along with chunks of his brain and skull, splattered throughout the cabin of his already messy automobile. The sanguine fluid also saturated his clothes and pooled onto his lap as it slowly dripped down towards his right hand which remarkably still clung lifelessly to his car keys.
Drops of blood also stained the ground just outside the driver side door of Fred’s car, but whether any of that blood got splashed back onto his executioner would be a mystery for another day. And to add to the mystery, the police would later find one spent bullet cartridge in the general vicinity of the car, as well as a half a cigarette butt which may or may not have been recently lit.
A few days after the murder, the medical examiner’s report conclusively stated that the concussive force of the bullet stopped Fred’s brain from functioning almost immediately, rendering him unconscious before he even knew what hit him. His spinal cord was also severed, which abruptly stopped his breathing, and for all intent and purpose he was dead within a matter of seconds.
Meanwhile, even though Fred Miller had just joined the ranks of the departed, all around him the hustle and bustle of life went on at its usual hectic pace. The garage quickly began to fill up with the employees of the nearby office building, while at the same time the windows of Fred’s car began to fog up from the heat of his discharging body fluids.
But then again, for the benefit of the believers among us, perhaps we could make the case that the thick murky fog might also be attributed to the release of the dead man’s soul.
Whether the gloomy mist emanating from Fred Miller’s corpse could be explained away by scientists, or whether the organic combustion was more metaphysical in nature, is not up to us to decide, but regardless of the origins of this mercurial miasma, the vehicle’s windows fogged up so completely that when Fred’s co-worker, Melissa Green, parked in her usual spot to the left of his car, she never even noticed his limp body slumped over in the driver’s seat with its head slanted slightly upwards.
Fred’s earthly remains were positioned in such a way that it seemed as if he may have been trying to make one last ditch effort at determining whether the roof of the garage had in fact, finally caved in. However, he needn’t have bothered, for as any fool will tell you, a house of cards…is never built to last.
…
At about the same time that Fred Miller left behind this hopeless world of mortals and sinners, his cell phone rang and it was Tracy Breslin on the other end of the line.
The ring tone, predictably enough was the Grateful Dead song “Casey Jones”, and naturally, the tune’s tale of a cocaine-addled train conductor was one of Fred’s all-time favorites. But of course, since he was now permanently indisposed, the vibrating phone was useless to him, and in a scene that was akin to rigor mortis setting in, the lively mobile device played right on through the sprightly melody before kicking into his eerily stiff voice-message recording.
The lack of an immediate response from her reliable old beau momentarily left Tracy feeling ominously troubled, and oddly enough, she sensed a prophetic, worrisome ache pulsing up from somewhere deep within the pit of her stomach.
“This isn’t like Freddie not to answer my calls” whimpered Tracy. But in end, when she thought through the situation rationally, she wasn’t overly alarmed that he didn’t pick up.
“After all,” she reasoned, “the man has to work for a living.”
In any event, she took the opportunity to leave him a hastily worded, breathless message on his voice mail.
“Hi Freddie…we’re on for this weekend and I can’t wait…luv ya!”
But alas, sadly, as we already know, and as Tracy would soon find out, she would never see her beloved Freddie…ever again.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 3