Chapter 2 – Momma’s Boy
Tuesday evening April 4, 2006 – 8:30 PM
John Breslin carefully pulled his car up in front of his mother Sandra’s home in Waltham Massachusetts; a typical suburban town with a population of about sixty thousand people, located 17 miles west of Boston. But before he even turned off the ignition, he had a mind to put her in reverse and get the hell out of Dodge.
Regrettably for Breslin however, there was no escaping his predicament. Whether he wanted to believe it or not, the walls were closing in all around him, in suffocating fashion no less, and so going on the lam wasn’t really an option.
At the root of Breslin’s quandary was an unforeseen around-the-clock scrutiny which had infiltrated his life in a bad way. And at the core of his discomforting nuisance was a ruthless higher power; a power that was hell-bent on carrying out a divine probe; an unrelenting vigil that might have driven a lesser man to the brink of insanity a long time ago. In short, big brother was watching his every move and there wasn’t a blessed thing he could do about it.
And so as Breslin emerged from his vehicle with this ever-present thought of secretive surveillance equipment troubling his mind, he couldn’t help but notice a large Ford sedan with two people sitting inside, parked directly across the street. Even though it was pitch black outside, after the events of the last few months, he rightfully assumed that it was another batch of detectives sent down from headquarters to stake him out, and he had learned quickly that the best thing to do under these circumstances was to just ignore them. And yet he was still disappointed to discover that there they were, hiding in plain sight, conspicuously idling in their undercover vehicle; because through it all he had been desperately trying to convince himself that perhaps he had finally seen the last of them.
For the most part, the 47 year old Breslin had been living with his 80 year old mother ever since the lawyer for his estranged wife, Tracy, had him evicted from their marital home in anticipation of their imminent divorce. But, fortunately, his mother didn’t mind this arrangement one bit. She had been overwrought with loneliness ever since her husband had died a few years ago, and like most mom’s, she took pleasure in the company of her children, particularly her youngest, “Johnny”.
Breslin had rented a small one bedroom apartment for a brief time, but he eventually decided to move in with his mother when his financial situation became untenable. In addition to paying the rent on the apartment, he was still paying the mortgage on his former home, and the bills were piling up fast.
But despite his many financial obligations, for years on end Breslin had been providing his mother with a little bit of extra money on the side every month to assist her in making ends meet, just as any good son would do. And as such, he rationalized that since he stopped by his mom’s house to check in on her and run errands at least three or four times a week, he may as well live with her until he figured out what the hell he was going to do with himself if and when the divorce finally went through.
Of course, Breslin still had visions of reconciliation with Tracy; especially now that her pain-in-the-ass boyfriend, Fred Miller, was “no longer in the picture” as he liked to put it.
He always got her to conform to his way of this thinking in the past (or so he thought), and he still hadn’t given up trying this time. After all, she was ready to divorce him a few years ago, and he talked her out of it then, so he figured, “who’s to say I can’t do it again?”
You see, much like Frank Newlan, John Breslin was the type of person who was driven to succeed at whatever it was he set his mind out to do, no matter what the cost. And although many of his detractors accused Breslin, who was built like a bull, of being a controlling, conniving, SOB, in his opinion, these people couldn’t be more wrong.
On the contrary, what Breslin saw in himself when he looked in the mirror was a man who had devoted his entire life to his wife and children; a man who doted over his mother; a man who would do anything for a friend or co-worker; a man who would even help a stranger change a flat tire; and so he never understood why certain people, Tracy in particular, couldn’t see that side of him.
“And now I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks anymore,” conceded a contemplative John Breslin as he quietly tiptoed into his mother’s house for fear that she might be sleeping. But when he found her sitting in the living room watching TV, he greeted her warmly, as always, and gave her a kiss on the top of the head for good measures. He couldn’t describe the feeling, but somehow just being physically close to his mother always filled him with an inner strength when he needed it most.
“How was work?” meekly asked a weary Mrs. Breslin.
“Just another lousy day at the office, but there was one good development…it looks like the State Police Detectives have finally stopped coming around and pestering my co-workers for information about the murder of Tracy’s friend. I told them a million times that I had nothing to do with, but they don’t want to believe me. All this time that they’ve been harassing me could have been put to better use looking for the real killer,” stubbornly insisted Breslin, even though he realized that he sounded more than a little like O. J. Simpson after he made his infamous denial regarding his wife’s murder.
By the tone of Breslin’s voice, one might have gotten the impression that he was trying to convince himself into thinking that his ordeal was nearing its conclusion, as much as he was trying to persuade his mother that everything was going to be alright.
“Yes, I know…the police stopped by here again today…a very nice gentlemen…but I politely told him that I had nothing to say…and to please get off my property,” dutifully reported Mrs. Breslin. And even though her voice displayed the signs of an overburdening fatigue, she still managed to give her son a weak smile. As far as she was concerned, her son’s burden was her burden too…and due to his mounting problems, she had suddenly become quite frail, practically overnight; a frailty that was further compounded by a recent hip replacement surgery.
However, despite her many physical ailments, Sandra Breslin was still a spunky woman who would do anything to protect her sons. She was certain that her Johnny would never be involved in something as horrible as a murder, and she was very upset with the way the police were treating him. As a matter of fact, when two rude detectives showed up on her doorstep to speak to Johnny on the day of Fred Miller’s death, she had a good mind to tell them off and slap them in the face for good measure.
And now nearly three months later, apparently nothing had changed. Now, nearly three months later, a visibly angry John Breslin roared, “I told them from day one to leave you out of this,” as he headed for the front door in an effort to discuss the situation with the detectives who he knew were loitering in their car, across the street from his mother’s house at that very moment.
“Please Johnny, sit down. I’m getting to old for this drama. Just leave them alone and they’ll eventually go away,” demanded Mrs. Breslin, but it was to no avail.
Breslin’s life had been a living hell for the past few months, and just when he thought it was finally returning to some semblance of normalcy, the police were back to harass him just a little bit more.
“Maybe they think I’ll eventually crack,” pondered Breslin.
Breslin was well aware of the fact that the authorities had been investigating him ever since the day that Fred Miller was killed. He also knew that a pair of detectives had been trailing him for some time now, and that they had tapped his phone line as well. But all the same, he was also supremely confident that they had nothing on him.
Breslin enjoyed watching those reality TV crime dramas, so he understood full well that the police always go straight for the spouse in a case where a wife or husband is murdered, or in a case such as this where the third party in a love-triangle is the victim of deadly foul play. Breslin also comprehended that the “dumb bastards” almost never got away with it, because their crimes were u
sually borne out of passion; spur-of-the-moment violence that wasn’t well thought out in the least.
Breslin would be the first to admit that he hated Fred Miller, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to kill him. And besides, regardless of the circumstances surrounding Miller’s death, he felt that he had good reason to despise him, and he would remain unapologetic about his hatred until the bitter end.
Before Miller’s untimely demise, Breslin would tell anyone who would listen; “the guy’s a junkie. I don’t want him anywhere near my kids, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep him away.”
But now that Miller was dead, he kind of wished he had kept his big mouth shut.
Breslin assumed that, in time, the storm would blow over and that the heat would eventually cool off, and he erroneously miscalculated that that time was coming soon. His wife Tracy even called recently and asked if he would take the kids for a few days; this despite the fact that she realized he was still pissed off at her for blabbing to the police that she was sure he had something to do with the murder. But nevertheless, despite her suspicions, that didn’t stop her from calling him whenever she needed something such as babysitter (or more likely money).
Ultimately however, even though there was no questioning the fact that Breslin was at work at the time of the murder, that still didn’t prove to Tracy (or to the police) that he had an airtight alibi.
Breslin had all of these thoughts running through his mind as he put his sweaty, shaking hand on the doorknob and psyched himself up for a confrontation with the detectives. But at the last second, he had a change of heart, and he decided to listen to his mother for once in his life. However, at the same instant that he had turned around to go sit back down in the living room, there was a knock on the door.
“Who the hell is bothering us at this hour?” wondered Breslin, although, as he hesitantly opened the door, he had a pretty good idea of just who it might be.
Breslin flicked on the front porch light switch, only to find Newton Police Detective Carolyn Curran and Massachusetts State Police Detective William Donavan standing there before him; not coincidentally these were the same two detectives who had shown up at his mother’s house on the day of the murder.
When Breslin recognized that it was his nemesis and her equally adversarial sidekick perched on the other side of the threshold, he indignantly asked; “What the hell do you want now?”
Breslin was fed up with having to deal with what he considered to be “uncalled for” police harassment, and he was about to give these no good cops a piece of his mind when he noticed that there were three squad cars parked in front of the house, as well as six uniformed officers standing outside on the steps, backing up Curran and Donovan who, unbeknownst to Breslin, had just received a call from the district attorney’s office with specific marching orders; “go get ‘em.”
Breslin was suddenly very tense, and with good reason we might add, because before he ever had a chance to launch into his tirade, Detective Donavan calmly announced, “Mr. Breslin you are under arrest for the murder of Fred Miller.”
Before he even knew what hit him, a stunned Breslin was standing in the hallway with his hands behind his back secured by handcuffs, and when he finally grasped what was happening, he screamed bloody-murder at the detectives; “you fuckin’ assholes. I told you to leave my mother out of this. You could have busted me before I came into the house.”
Meanwhile, at the first sign of the commotion, Mrs. Breslin came limping into the hallway to investigate.
“What’s wrong Johnny?” she asked, and when she saw her son in handcuffs, surround by law enforcement officials, she collapsed into a chair which luckily happened to be situated in the corner of the foyer.
What are you doing to my son?” wailed Mrs. Breslin as she clutched her heart. “You ruthless bastards…my son is innocent,” she screamed and sobbed all at the same time.
“Mrs. Breslin we’re going to call you an ambulance,” informed Detective Curran while at the same time she attempted to assist the distressed old lady.
“Get your hands off of me you no good bitch,” responded Mrs. Breslin with venom in her voice, and Detective Curran immediately backed off and looked towards Detective Donavan with a facial expression that seemed to be asking for advice.
For his part, when John Breslin beheld the angry reaction of his mother, he became concerned that she might be struck down with a heart attack right there and then on the spot, so he did his best to calm her down as well.
“Relax ma…everything’s gonna be alright,” asserted Breslin. He then turned to Detective Donavan, and with tears in his eyes, he added, “My brother’s phone number is written down on the bulletin board in the kitchen, please give him a call and ask him to come over to look after my mom.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure that someone stays with her until your brother arrives,” replied the ever calm Detective Donavan in an understanding tone.
…
While John Breslin was being read his Miranda rights, a similar scene was playing out at a seedy barroom on the other side of town. The bartender on duty, a 57 year old gentleman by the name of Samuel Fox was arrested without incident for his alleged role in the murder of Fred Miller.
“Who the Hell’s gonna close the bar?” a stunned Fox was rumored to have asked as the police took him away.
…
And at the same time back at the Breslin residence, John Breslin was in the process of making one final attempt to reassure his mother, as the police were hauling him out the door.
“Don’t cry ma, I’ll be back home by tomorrow night,” predicted Breslin as he took one last look at his mother. And for a brief second they made eye-contact and silently communicated their love for each other by some sort of genetic telepathy, which gave them both the strength to carry on.
Unfortunately for Breslin however, he would not be coming home anytime soon. Breslin spent that night at the Newton Police station, and the next day at his arraignment, he was ordered held without bail. He was then transported to the Middlesex Superior Courthouse Jail in Cambridge, Massachusetts where he would be housed for the next two years until his eventual day in court.
Samuel Fox was also held without bail, but his home for the next two years was scheduled to be the Suffolk County Jail in Boston; apparently the district attorney’s office wanted to keep these two…as far away from each other…as possible.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 6