From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 5 – Lines and Queues

  Wednesday morning June 4, 2008 – 7:05 AM

  Frank Newlan grabbed the jury duty summons letter, which had been sitting on his desk for the past two and a half months, and despite his aversion of all things unanticipated, he was wound-up and ready-to-go on what he thought would be a mini one-day adventure.

  Being the neurotic that he was, Newlan made one last canvas through his condo, making sure that all the lights were out, all the windows were closed, and all the blinds were drawn, while at the same time stopping briefly at each aperture to admire the beautiful, unobstructed view of the Boston skyline.

  When Newlan initially toured the condo during his house hunting crusade, he fell in love with the place from the outset, and he probably overpaid for the privilege of living in the lap of luxury, but he didn’t give it a second thought. He decided for once in his life to just go for it, and he was determined not to fret over a few thousand bucks…and to this day, he still had no regrets.

  Sometimes, even now, Newlan would absentmindedly gaze out at the picturesque vista of towering skyscrapers contrasted against the shimmering waters of the Mystic River and he’d vividly recall stepping out onto the deck for the first time; he was absolutely blown away by the stunning view; and he knew right then and there that he just had to have this particular property.

  Over the years, Newlan had, for the most part, grown accustom to the panoramic cityscape, and yet, every once in awhile he’d peer out of his oversized master bedroom windows and think to himself, “I can’t believe that I live here.” And whenever he had guests over for a visit, invariably, all anyone ever wanted to do was to just sit out on the deck all night, sipping wine and admiring the scenery, while throwing out pictorial adjectives such as “breathtaking” and “majestic”.

  Newlan’s condo was your typical 2 bed, 2 bath apartment, but it was also a bright, sunny, south facing corner unit on the 6th floor (unit 630 to be exact) of the 11 story twin-tower edifice. The complex boasted of many amenities that Newlan enjoyed, such as a heated indoor pool, an exercise room complete with modern equipment and saunas, two racquetball courts, a tennis court, and perhaps his favorite frill of all, the deeded indoor parking spot that came with his unit (despite the fact that his irrational fear of enclosed structures left him feeling a bit claustrophobic at times).

  The complex also offered a staff of doormen who were on duty 24 hours a day, which was a necessity for such a large building, what with people coming and going non-stop every hour of the day, morning, noon and night. The primary day-time concierge was an elderly gentleman, around sixty-something years of age, who was originally from Pakistan. Most of the tenants referred him by his nickname, which was Sid, but his proper name was Saeed (pronounced CyEd) Kahn. For his part, Newlan preferred to address Kahn by his formal first name, even though he was never quite sure whether he was getting the pronunciation down correctly.

  Kahn worked just about every day of the week, and he was usually good for a 10 to 12 hour shift, which made him a convenient target for the many wealthy (not to mention grumpy) occupants of the building.

  But the opulence of skyline views and 24-hour concierge services aside, Newlan had some rather important business to attend to this morning, and so once he got his act together, he reluctantly made his way onto the elevator, downward to the lobby. And from there he headed for the flight of stairs that would take him down to the lower level garage where his reserved parking spot was located.

  As always, Saeed Kahn was manning the security desk and he greeted Newlan in his Middle Eastern accent with a cheerful; “Good morning Mr. Frank, you are up early today my friend.”

  It was usually easier for Kahn to refer to the tenants by their first names, rather than to pronounce what to him were their strange-sounding American surnames; and thus, Newlan became known as “Mr. Frank”.

  “Top secret business this morning, Saeed,” replied Newlan, but then he amended his response to include, “just kidding, I have jury duty today.”

  Saeed appeared to be a nice-enough man, but he loved to run his mouth, or as Newlan would put it; “he has the gift of gab”. And so before Newlan knew what hit him, Kahn went into a serious dissertation regarding the American justice system vs. how things were done in his native Pakistan.

  Newlan’s immediate reaction was, “uh oh, big mistake…too much information,” but at that point it was too late to do anything except to let Kahn rant on for a while.

  Newlan had had many long discussions with Kahn over the years, and he was too polite to interrupt him while he was rambling. Instead, he’d usually wait until a neighbor distracted him, and then he’d make his getaway. This morning however, Newlan was on a tight schedule, so he had to be direct, and he cut Kahn off short, before the unrelenting doorman bent his ear off with his incessant chatter.

  “Sorry Saeed, I’m running late, but we’ll have to talk about this some other time.”

  It was clear from the daggers in Kahn’s eyes that he was offended by Newlan’s discourteous insolence, but he accepted his excuse nonetheless, and he left him with a somewhat phony half-smile and a polite, “have a nice day sir.”

  As much as Newlan respected Saeed Kahn, there were times, such as today, when he would anxiously contemplate the immigrant doorman’s cross-eyed stare, and mutter to himself, “I hope to hell someone’s done a background check on this guy.”

  For some strange reason, Newlan seemed to think that Kahn bore an uncanny resemblance to some of the terrorists that he’d see on the TV news from time to time, tormenting a kidnapped American; and every now and then his imagination would get the better of him.

  Whenever Newlan was in one of these vexed moods, he’d swear up and down that he sensed the presence of evil lurking just below the old man’s surface. And when his instincts spoke to him, he listened very intently.

  Newlan would occasionally observe Kahn sitting at the security desk in the complex’s lobby, ruling like a king on a throne, and he’d see another side to him come shining through; a side that he didn’t like so much.

  Kahn’s dominion -- that is to say, the condo complex itself -- was, in some respects, a cross between an old age home and the United Nations, since it seemed that the vast majority of the residents were either retired couples, or foreigners from every country imaginable.

  Newlan should have been used to it by now, but he still would become uncomfortable whenever he found himself trapped on the elevator with one of his decrepit neighbors, or worse, with a Middle Eastern woman wearing an exotic scarf covering her face. In fact, Kahn had recently purchased a unit in the complex directly adjacent to Newlan’s, and one day he introduced him to his wife who was, naturally, hidden behind one of those mysterious scarves.

  Newlan wondered where Kahn got the money to buy a unit in their complex, which where rather pricy, but he was the type of person who minded his own business, so he didn’t dwell on it all that much.

  In a moment of weakness, Kahn had confided to Newlan that he was once a successful business man back in Pakistan, which left Newlan thinking to himself, “then why the hell did you leave to become a glorified security guard in the US?”

  Newlan’s gut feeling was that Kahn had some sort of shady past, and whenever they’d engage in one of their marathon debates, he’d find himself obsessing afterwards over what the real story was behind his reticent doorman’s trek to America, which would in turn leaving him grumbling; “Just my luck, I’m probably living in a complex with a secret terrorist cell holed up in one of the apartments, and some night while I’m tossing and turning in bed, the bastards will blow the whole building up.”

  Of course it goes without saying (since it is already probably quite obvious by now) but Newlan tended to worry himself sick over even the most innocuous dictums, and more often than not, his irrational fears would cause him to get hung up over some stupid nonsensical situation. And truth be told, even he would
tell you that some of his theories were pretty farfetched.

  And so with erratic thoughts cluttering his brain, Newlan finally made his way down to the garage and headed towards his car, which was located about halfway between the glass door that led into the building and the heavy metal garage doors at the far end of the structure.

  Inexplicably, the garage sometimes gave Newlan the spooks, despite the fact that it was well lit and protected by a security system. At this hour of the morning, the lot was eerily quiet, which only added to Newlan’s affliction, and wouldn’t you know it, just as he got to his vehicle, he thought he heard something move.

  “Shit, this jury duty is already making me jumpy and it hasn’t even started yet,” complained Newlan, but then he took a deep breath and rationalized that the scurrying sound was probably just a mouse or something.

  With his mind at ease for the moment, Newlan pressed the unlock button on the car door remote, which was attached to his keychain, and he waited for the double-beeping sound which indicated that the doors were open. Now all he had left to do was to plop himself into the driver’s seat and settle in for the ride to the courthouse.

  Newlan drove a red 1995 Mercury Mystique LS, which was the fancier six cylinder version of the base GS model, and although the body of the car had seen better days, the engine was still in mint condition. Because Newlan worked only a few blocks away from where he lived, the car had very low mileage on it, but he’d still take her in for servicing every four months or so, even though he never came close to putting in the recommended three thousand miles between oil changes.

  Newlan procured the vehicle off of a used car lot about ten years ago, and he got lucky on this one since she had never given him much trouble. The car was in mint condition at the time he purchased it, with only twenty thousand miles of wear-and-tear on its frame, and he bought the puppy for just over ten grand. The relentless negotiating team put the high-pressure sales-pitch on Newlan, but it wasn’t really necessary; he recognized a good deal when he saw one, so he scooped her up on the spot, and he surprised the salesmen when he announced that he was going to pay for the car in cash.

  The only obvious visible flaw on the vehicle was a streak of rusty, scratched-up, peeling chrome on the front bumper, and although Newlan attempted to touch it up with a splash of spray paint, in the long run he only succeeded in making the damage look even worse than it already did, not that he cared.

  Newlan was never big on automobiles, and he typically rode his cars into the ground until they practically fell apart; it seems he just couldn’t be bothered trying to impress people by maintaining a fancy ride.

  All that mattered to Newlan was that he had reliable transportation to get him from point A to point B. And furthermore, whenever he was out on the town, scoping the singles bars, and he came across a loose woman who seemed to be a bit too interested in what model of car he drove, he’d promptly lose interest, since he was positive that he’d never hit it off with someone whose idea of prestige was being chauffeured around by a sharp-dressed man driving a high-end automobile.

  But despite the proven reliability of his vehicle, whenever Newlan had an important appointment to keep, he’d needlessly worry that the old jalopy wasn’t going to start up. However, not surprisingly, on this, the morning of his jury duty, he turned the key over and the ignition kicked in like a charm, just as it did every morning.

  Newlan carefully backed out of his parking space, which took some skill due to the many support beams that were strategically place throughout the garage (beams that were necessary to keep the building from toppling over we might add). On the flip side however, in Newlan’s imaginative mind, the cement columns transformed the task of pulling in and out of the garage into a game of maneuvering around an obstacle course at an amusement park.

  In any event, once Newlan cleared the vertical stanchions, which buffeted his car on both sides, he hit the button on his garage door opener and navigated up the ramp. For better or for worse, he was on his way. For richer or for poorer, he was on the road again, ready to face whatever life tossed in his path…or so he thought.

  Newlan cranked up the stereo, which was playing a Grateful Dead CD, and the Dead song “Ripple” wafted through the speakers as he quietly hummed along to the tune’s “let there be music” theme.

  Newlan was tempted to light up a joint which, he reasoned, would make for a more tolerable morning, but then he thought the better of it…for a while anyway. The idea of being stoned in a courthouse, while ironic, was probably a bit too risky, concluded his pragmatic side. But then again, there was something about Grateful Dead music that always got him going, so in the end he compromised and took a few quick tokes, just to get his head together.

  Newlan had been smoking marijuana ever since he was a teenager, and base on his own real-life experiences, he never bought into the government’s gloom and doom “Reefer Madness” scare tactics. Now all these years later, Newlan and his friends (along with an entire generation of baby boomers for that matter) were akin to a life-long science experiment; for the most part they were an intelligent, articulate bunch of people, which tended to disprove the theory that everyone who smokes pot will eventually become some sort of vegetable, or even worse, a drug-addicted fiend.

  Newlan was a huge Grateful Dead fan and an even bigger fan of music in general. He had seen the Dead in concert at least 30 times over the years, and he still loved to listen to their unique brand of psychedelic jams even though their leader, Jerry Garcia, had been deceased for well over 10 years now.

  Needless to say, like most “Dead Heads”, Newlan was also a big timer partier in his day. Granted, he still enjoyed knocking down a few drinks and smoking a few joints now and then, but this was nothing compared to his younger days when he and his friends would ingest just about anything that they could get their hands on, short of shooting up heroin.

  Newlan was also once a very accomplished guitar player in his own right, and he played in a few local bands in his younger days. However, he wasn’t one of those naturally-gifted musicians who could pick out a tune on the piano by ear, practically at birth. He pretty much took up the guitar on a whim when he was a senior in high school.

  Newlan and his two best friends, Patrick “Pat” Horn and Bruce Reardon were completely zonked-out one night after an incredible concert by the flamboyant rock band Queen, and the show left them so inspired and so totally stoked that they decided to make a pact to take up instruments and change the world.

  The three buddies went to the same high school and the same college together, and if that wasn’t enough to keep them joined at the hip, they eventually formed their own rock band for a while…and here they were, some 30 years later, still the best of friends. Amazingly enough, after only a couple of years of lessons and lots of practicing, they were proficient enough to perform for their friends at a backyard barbecue (which really didn’t take all that much skill, considering the brand of three chord songs that they tended to play), and once they got their confidence up, they actually gigged out at a few local bars with Horn on bass and Newlan and Reardon on guitars.

  The trio didn’t hang out with any friends who played drums, and so after numerous auditions they settled on a female drummer, Kay Owens, who was very talented but rather on the strange side. And capable though they may have been, they never took their musical careers quite seriously enough; they were just a crew of good buddies having a great time. They never made much money either, but they sure met a lot of women (and on one particularly memorable evening, Owens even hooked up with a grungy-looking long haired dude after a gig at a punk rock club), which deep down is probably one of the main reasons why most kids decide to start a rock band in the first place.

  Sadly, as is the case with many of our childhood dreams, life got in the way and the band didn’t last very long. Within a few years of their apex, Newlan’s band-mates got married and had kids, and they all had jobs and mortgages and respo
nsibilities, but the rock star dream was fun while it lasted.

  The band was the deciding factor behind Newlan’s reasoning against going to law school. After four years of college, he was tired of school, and he decided that he’d rather give music a chance, so law school would have to wait.

  As it turned out Newlan never did become a lawyer, which was just as well as far as he was concerned. But now, here he was again, all these years later, on his way to jury duty; on his way to do his part to help sort out the world’s problems.

  “There’s something wrong with this picture,” reckoned Newlan, “when Frankie Newlan is asked to be the voice of reason.”

  Within minutes of pulling out of the condo complex parking lot, Newlan was merging his car onto the highway ramp for Interstate Route 93 North, which was located less than a mile from his building.

  Newlan was cruising along at a steady pace, but traffic was already starting to pick up and the drizzly rain wasn’t helping matters either. A day like today made him appreciate the fact that he had an easy commute to work, especially since he didn’t really enjoy driving all that much to begin with, particularly in rush-hour traffic.

  As far as Newlan was concerned, a tough commute would be cause for more aggravation than work itself was, and he couldn’t fathom how some of his co-workers were able sit through an hour-long drive stuck in traffic every morning and evening.

  And sure enough, just when Newlan thought he was making good time on his way to the courthouse, traffic came to a complete stop.

  “How the hell can we be moving along at 65 miles an hour one minute, and the next minute I’m slamming on the brakes?” grumbled Newlan, and within seconds, horns were blaring out of control as he and the thousands of other morning commuters began to stress out.

  “This highway jungle is enough to drive you crazy…no wonder so many people get road rage after a while,” justified Newlan as he reached for the ashtray and took another deep puff off the smoldering joint in a futile attempt to relax his frayed nerves.

  Newlan should have known that the inevitable slowdown had originated at the merger between Interstates Route 93 and Route 128, which was probably one of the worst examples of bad planning in the history of modern highways. The entrance and exit ramps of the two roadways were designed so close to each other that they basically created collision-course conditions every time more than a few cars tried to get on or off one of the exits at the same time.

  Unfortunately for Newlan however, the Middlesex Superior Courthouse was situated just off of Route 128, so he was headed straight into the heart of the traffic jam, and after about 45 minutes of stop-and-go traffic, he finally pulled into the office complex where the courthouse was located; a drive that would normally only take about 15 minutes when traffic is moving steadily.

  And as if the hassle of the commute wasn’t bad enough, Newlan couldn’t believe what he was witnessing as he made his way down the path that led to the courthouse parking garage. First of all, there were police cars and motorcycles parked everywhere, as far as the eye could see, which always made him nervous, and on top of that there were roughly 20 different media satellite trucks parked along the passage-way as well.

  “It looks like the three horrible hubbys are gonna make for a big-time circus atmosphere around here for the next few weeks,” marveled Newlan, and as he slowly inched his way towards the garage, he observed that there seemed to be some sort of blockade up ahead. The backup reminded him of one of those alcohol checkpoints that the police sometimes set up on major roadways during peak driving holidays, and the delay made him even more uptight than he already was.

  It was only when Newlan got closer to the blockade did he realized that the police were checking IDs and credentials before letting anyone into the garage.

  “Holy shit, this car probably stinks like Bob Marley’s recording studio,” muttered Newlan as he hastily searched for the air freshener in his glove compartment, and when he finally found it, he promptly gave the cabin at least 10 quick sprays.

  “Great, now it smells like strawberry reefer in here,” added a now panicky Newlan as he rolled down the window a crack in an attempt to fan out the smoke with his hands.

  With a line of cars already queued up behind him, it was too late for Newlan to do anything other than to move forward and hope for the best, and when he finally got to the garage entrance, the cop in charge of checking IDs motioned him to roll down his window.

  “Good morning officer,” was the wittiest greeting a puzzled-looking Newlan could come up with as he rolled down the window just enough to be able to communicate.

  “What’s your business at the courthouse today sir?” the no-nonsense police officer asked.

  “Well he called me sir, so that’s a good sign” thought Newlan. Even though Newlan was almost 50 years old, he still felt (and sometimes acted) like a kid, and as such, whenever someone addressed him as “sir”, it always triggered a reaction of surprise in his mind.

  “I’m here for jury duty,” replied Newlan, but meanwhile what he was really thinking was; “I’m here on official government business, so take that you asshole.”

  The officer requested Newlan to produce his jury duty information, and then in an effort to keep up with the ever-growing line of automobiles, he hastily waved him into the parking garage.

  “Oh well, I guess the car doesn’t reek of weed after all…just me being paranoid again,” a relieved Newlan sighed as he rode up to the second level of the garage and pulled into one of the many open spaces.

  Newlan was considering taking another couple of hits off the half-smoked joint, which was hidden in his dashboard console, but he thought the better of it when he noticed a police officer on a motorcycle slowly rolling by while at the same time closely monitoring his surroundings.

  “Anyway, it’s just about 8 o’clock so I might as well get going,” surmised Newlan. Even though he knew from previous experience that jury selection never started precisely at 8 AM sharp, he figured that he might as well make his way inside and get on with it. And so after a few drops of Visine to “get the red out” as he liked to say, Newlan was ready for his day in court.

  As Newlan approached the front entrance of the courthouse, a vast contingent of reporters and camera crews were milling about. One of the local news teams appeared to be doing a live broadcast, and the attractive reporter assigned to the scene could be heard shouting out to anyone who crossed her path; “Anyone going in for jury duty, please, we’d like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

  And even though a number of people were entering the building at the same time as Newlan, he assumed the reporter was talking to him, but at the moment he wanted nothing to do with being on TV. The face of the Channel 7 Morning News may have been alluring, but nevertheless he scurried by as quickly as possible, while at the same time exclaiming, “Sorry, running late, gotta go…sorry, running late, gotta go.”

  But despite his refusal to participate in the media circus, deep inside Newlan was intrigued and amused by the commotion that was ensuing all around him, and the unwanted attention left him feeling as if he was an important cog in the wheel of justice.

  However, once Newlan entered the building and he realized that there was another stretched-out queue awaiting him, just to get past the security checkpoint, his air of self-importance rapidly wore off. He suddenly felt as if he was at the airport, and he hated flying as much as he hated rush-hour traffic. Actually, it wasn’t so much the flying that he hated, as much it was the inevitable long lines and delays, which only got much worse after 9/11.

  Speaking of delays, the line that Newlan currently found himself wading through was almost as unbearable as an airport logjam. And to make matters worse, when he finally made his way up to the checkpoint, he was forced to empty his pockets into a small basket which was then placed onto a conveyor belt for the purpose of having his possessions scanned by an oversized x-ray machine and observed by
a court officer who was standing at the other end of the contraption.

  Newlan was slightly concerned about putting his wallet (which had around a hundred bucks in it) into the basket, but since he was surrounded by court officers he had little choice in the matter.

  The conveyor belt was also necessary so that the contents of Newlan’s pockets wouldn’t get picked up by the metal detector which another court officer was waving for him to pass through. Of course, with Newlan’s luck, predictably enough, as soon as he made his way across the threshold, the alarm went off anyway.

  “Oh shit, now I feel like a criminal,” muttered Newlan as the court officer glared at him.

  “Lift your arms up please,” ordered the court officer, and although Newlan had no reason not to comply, the rebel in him was considering making his objections known nonetheless. The procedure reminded him way too much of being arrested, and it caused his manic side to kick in. In fact, Newlan found himself reflexively looking over his shoulder in an effort to ensure that some other court cop wasn’t going to come sneaking up from behind him and slap a pair of cuffs on him when he least expected it.

  With Newlan temporarily distracted by the awkwardness of the situation, he never even had a chance to raise his arms up as the court officer approached him with a strange-looking wand which he waved first around his legs and then up across his midsection.

  All of a sudden, a beeping sound pierced Newlan’s ears and startled him like an alarm clock ringing, and the officer sternly commanded; “Please take off your belt sir.”

  Newlan was wearing a light jacket, which was zippered up past his waist so that his belt wasn’t visible, and no one told him to take it off when he had emptied his pockets. The last thing he was expecting was that his belt might cause a problem, and he was surprised to learn that the buckle was actually made of metal since it was a cheap imitation leather belt (Newlan wasn’t one to spend a load of money on clothing).

  However, in spite of his confused reaction, Newlan took off the belt as ordered, and raised his arms up over his head. The court officer then proceeded with the magic-wand waving, and sure enough the damn alarm went off again, this time as the wand made its way across Newlan’s upper-chest. At this stage of the game, the court officer was beginning to get a bit annoyed with him, as the line continued to back-up behind them.

  “Didn’t we tell you to take off all jewelry?” growled the irked court officer.

  “All they told me was to empty my pockets. I guess I must not look like a jewelry guy,” protested Newlan as he pulled his “Jesus on the Cross” religious medallion up over his head.

  Newlan wasn’t a very religious person, but the medallion with its inscription “I am a Catholic, please call a priest” was a high school graduation gift from his girlfriend at the time, Marianne Plante (who pronounced her last name with a silent E), and it had become part of his daily ritual to put the righteous chain on every day ever since.

  Newlan eventually passed the inspection, but meanwhile the court officer manning the conveyor belt, was suspiciously eying his car keys.

  Newlan’s key chain was attached to his car alarm remote which was enclosed in a hard plastic casing. The casing had broken away recently, so Newlan rigged it back together with a paper clip and some electrical tape in a sloppy, yet effective attempt to reattach the door-opening remote onto the key chain. But with all due respect to Newlan’s shoddy repair work, apparently the court officer suspected that his do-it-yourself fix-it job might actually be some sort of explosive device, and he wanted an explanation.

  Newlan pleaded ignorance, and then with a smirk on his face he added; “Get real…like I’m gonna get myself summoned to jury duty just so I can blow up the courthouse.”

  Upon further review, the conveyor belt court officer returned Newlan’s belongings back to him, but at the same time he also gave him a look that said; “What a pain in the ass this guy is.”

  But despite the glaring look, Newlan stopped to check his wallet in an attempt to verify that all of his cash was still in place, while at the same time the court officer continued to stare him down.

  And when the stare-down didn’t let up, Newlan calmly announced; “Relax sir, I’m just making sure that everything’s still there.” But all the while, he knew full well that the court officer wasn’t liking his wise-guy act.

  “For Christ’s sake they should have had you and your crew working at Logan airport in 2001, and maybe we could have foiled the terrorists,” added Newlan with a smile as the now very irritated court officer steamed in silent contempt.

  “By the way which floor for jury duty?” wondered Newlan.

  “Go down the hall and take the elevator to the third floor,” replied the court officer in a tired voice, which comes as a natural outgrowth from answering the same question a million times a day.

  “Thank you for your time and have a nice day sir,” replied a sarcastic Newlan as he bowed his head and tipped an imaginary cap. And as he made his way down the hall toward the elevator, he muttered, “Well I guess this day is off to a good start…NOT.”

  And so after well over an hour of winding his way through line after line, and queue after queue, Newlan squeezed his way onto the crowded elevator which would take him up to the third floor…and all the while he was hoping upon hope that his stay inside the Middlesex Superior Courthouse would be a short one. But as we all know, sometimes…you don’t always get…what you wish for.