From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 10 – Counselor R. J. Gleason’s Colorful People

  Wednesday morning February 14, 2007 – 10:00 AM

  Renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had a hitch in his stride as he was being escorted towards one of the defense consultation rooms in the Middlesex County Jail by a guard who seemed to know him quite well.

  As a matter of fact after over 30 years of working cases in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Gleason was on first name basis with just about every criminal attorney, DA, judge, and court officer in the Boston area.

  Early on in his career, Gleason had worked in both the district attorney’s office and later the public defender’s office, and being the ambitious sort that he was, in the early 90’s he founded his own law firm…and over time he came to be regarded as one of the most highly sought after criminal attorney’s in the State.

  Gleason recognized from a very young age that he was born to be an attorney, and as he grew into his destiny, he became more and more passionate about his work every step of the way. His fundamental motto was; “I just want to ensure that justice is served.”

  As far as Gleason was concerned if he got a guilty person off because the government couldn’t prove its case, then that was justice “and so be it.” Whereas if one of his client’s was found guilty by an impartial jury after a fair trial, and that person was given an appropriate sentence, then in his mind that was justice as well, and he could live with the consequences.

  Gleason could handle the guilty verdicts; he had lost plenty of cases over the course of his career, and he had a pretty good idea which of his clients deserved to be in prison. On the other hand, what he could never accept was when one of his clients got hit with a life sentence without the possibility of parole when that person realistically only deserved a 25 year sentence. That, in Gleason’s mind was not justice at all. That would get his Irish blood boiling every time. That would cause him to fight tooth-and-nail over every inch of evidence.

  You see, Gleason was a stickler for details and it showed in his dogged determination. He was known to hammer witnesses into submission over even the slightest inconsistencies, and he made no apologies for his tenacity.

  Gleason was well aware of the advantageous power that the government wields, and his oath to his clients was that he would leave no stone unturned in his quest to uncover the truth, regardless of who it might offend. He was also well aware that it wasn’t above some ambitious prosecutor to abuse his or her power “for fame and fortune…but mostly for fame,” as he was famously known to have said during a TV interview many years ago.

  Gleason knew every trick in the book; the insinuations, the embellished testimony, the trumped-up charges, and so whenever a prosecutor would attempt to pull a fast one on him, he would laugh out loud and think to himself, “Don’t they realize that I use to be one of them?”

  And truth be told, back in his younger days when he worked as an up-and-coming lawyer for the district attorney’s office, Gleason wasn’t above using some of the same tactics that he now despised. At the time, the running joke around the office was, “never let the facts get in the way of a good story.”

  To this day, Gleason was still haunted by a case where he successfully prosecuted a young man by the name of Donald Mason, and sent him away on a 20-years-to-life sentence for a rape that the poor guy never committed.

  Mason was just a 21 year old suburban kid who had never so much as even been issued a traffic citation before, when his life was turned upside-down; he was a just a carefree kid who was full of vim and vigor, when a most unimaginable spin around the wheel of misfortune became his reality; he was just a young adult coming of age, when he got caught up in an arbitrary chain of events; a rippling domino effect that would most certainly have to be considered an innocent man’s worst nightmare.

  Mason was working as a janitor in a psychiatric hospital, just minding his own business, when one day, out of the blue, he was accused of assaulting and raping a patient.

  And despite his misgivings, Gleason never questioned some of the shoddy police work that was presented to him as evidence in the case…until years later that is, when he was much wiser as to the ways of the justice system.

  Like many of his cases, the Mason trial stayed in the back of Gleason’s mind and bothered him for years; he had no concrete reason to believe that Mason wasn’t guilty, but for some reason he just never thought that the kid was fairly represented, and over the years the case ate away at his conscience. And then one day while he was going through his archives, he came across the Mason files, and as he poured over the details, he came to the realization that he may have made a big mistake.

  And in a final twist of irony, Gleason decided to pursue an appeal on behalf of Mason; so in effect he was attempting to overturn his own work, and with the help of modern DNA evidence he was able to get the unfortunate victim of circumstances freed after 18 years in prison.

  Gleason was in tears after the hearing, and when he spoke to Mason in the lobby of the courthouse as a free man, he begged for his forgiveness. He was prepared for the worst, but he ended up being totally floored by Mason’s reaction, for instead of receiving what would have been a justifiable verbal tongue-lashing, Mason literally hugged him and told him that everything was going to be alright.

  From the moment that Mason’s conviction was overturned, Gleason admirably gained an even greater appreciation for his chosen profession, and he vowed to ratchet his dedication-level up another notch. He was more driven that ever to fight for his clients; no matter how guilty they appeared to be to the layman; no matter how many feathers he ruffled.

  These days Gleason was defending just as many white-collar millionaire criminals as he was your average everyday murderers, and he was making a pretty penny off of all of them. However, to earn all of that money he worked extremely long hours; nights, weekends, holidays, you name it; but all in all, he understood that he was living a dream life.

  To balance this life of riches, Gleason made it a point to take on his share of pro-bono cases, and when he was feeling a bit too smug about his life, he would go down to the homeless shelter and do some volunteer work, including giving out free legal advice.

  Yes, over the years Gleason had seen it all…or so he thought.

  But if there is any doubt to the madness that Gleason had to contend with on a daily basis, we present a few of his more dubious assignments:

  There was the case of the delusional Catholic devotee who laid siege to an abortion rights clinic with a shotgun, mowing down four innocent women in the process.

  There was the case of the abnormally quiet man who, one day, out of the blue, snapped, and decapitated his wife. He then cut her heart out and stuck it on a fence post in front of their home before calmly calling the police.

  There was the case of the deviant man who lured his beautiful teenaged neighbor into his unattached garage, and once he got her there…once he got her alone where she was like a helpless puppy…once he gained control of what he deemed to be her demon-possessed body, he raped her and he murdered her; strangled the life out of her and then left her hanging from the rafters of his garage like a little rag doll.

  And this was just the tip of the iceberg; just a small sampling of the literally hundreds of bizarre and grizzly cases that R. J. Gleason had worked on.

  Gleason truly believed that some of these defendants were criminally insane, and yet he had never won an insanity defense in his entire career. “Not one,” as he liked to say in court for emphasis when highlighting an argument, such as when a case lacked any eye-witnesses for instance.

  When a reporter who was doing a profile on Gleason asked him about the assortment of lunatics he had represented over the years, he was mischievously quoted as saying, “I get to meet some colorful people in my line of work.”

  He was also quoted in the same article as saying, “my family and friends have told me many times that I should have gone into business la
w, and I realize that I could have become quite wealthy in that field. But I never found that area of law interesting, and I knew from day one that I made the right choice. A lot of people hate the work I do. I guess they don’t feel that some of my clients are worth defending. That is, of course, until someone they know is involved in an unfortunate incident…then it’s those same people who think that I’m a saint.”

  So on this cold winter morning as Gleason made his way to visit his newest client for the first time, a man who was accused of hiring a hit-man to kill his estranged wife’s boyfriend, he mulled over the government’s case in his mind, and as he did, he came away unimpressed by the evidence, which was strictly circumstantial.

  Gleason had already reviewed the grand jury’s findings numerous times, and every time he did, he thought to himself, “Maybe he did it, maybe he didn’t. But they are going to need a lot more than a bunch of telephone records to convince me otherwise.”

  “You on the Breslin case, R. J.?” asked the guard as he led Gleason to the secured conference room which held John Breslin and his Divorce Attorney, Joseph Catino.

  “You got it…typical domestic situation. People just never learn,” replied Gleason with a sigh.

  For his part, Breslin was so unprepared for his ordeal that he never even consulted with a criminal attorney prior to his arrest. And on his first night in jail, the only desperate idea he could come up with was to call his divorce attorney who was nice enough to represent him on a moment’s notice at his arraignment the next morning.

  Attorney Catino had grand visions of gallantly representing Breslin, not to mention garnering all of the attention that the case was bound to bring him. Yes, Catino had stars in his eyes for quite a while, but a guilty conscience finally got the better of him after he botched Breslin’s latest hearing. It was only then that Catino came to the realization that he was just a two-bit divorce lawyer who wasn’t cut out to be working murder trials, and so for the sake of his client he conceded that he needed to remove himself from the case.

  Immediately following his latest debacle, Catino pulled Breslin aside and admitted, “Look John we have to get you a real criminal attorney. I’m in way over my head on this one. I have an old friend, R. J. Gleason, who specializes in this type of stuff. He’s the best in the business…but he’s gonna cost you some money.”

  “I don’t care what it takes. My family’s behind me. We’ll come up with the money one way or another,” hysterically replied Breslin, and after a short pause he added, “Do you think Gleason can finally get me out on bail?”

  “I doubt it. Like I told you already, they usually don’t let people charged with murder out on bail,” replied Catino just as adamantly.

  “But as I told you a million times, I’m innocent. Besides they’re only accusing me of a payoff…not actually murdering someone,” rebutted Breslin.

  “As far as the DA’s office is concerned, it’s the same thing. Look John, I don’t know if you‘re grasping the seriousness of the situation…you could go away for life,” exclaimed Catino who then held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart and added, “your ex-wife is this close to wiping you out clean…and you’re still thinking bail? My estimate is that it would cost around a million bucks…and even then it’s probably out of the question.”

  In the end, Attorney Catino made the arrangements, and after an initial payment was made, (Catino didn’t know how the Breslin family came up with the money, and he wasn’t about to ask) the meeting that Gleason was now heading to was hastily arranged.

  After submitting himself to a mandatory pat-down, Gleason was hustled passed the bars of the security gate, which even after all these years still made him shudder, and he was pointed to the meeting room by the guard.

  “It’s the first door on your left, R. J.”

  “Thanks Timmy,” replied Gleason as he opened the door.

  “No problem…I’ll be waiting here to escort you back out,” replied Tim the guard, one of the many people who Gleason had come to know so well over the years.

  The jail itself occupied the top four floors of the former Middlesex Superior Courthouse in Cambridge, and it was ridiculously overcrowded; there were four people in cells that were meant for two; there were hundreds of cots in the cafeteria; there were no recreational facilities, no exercise facilities, and the building was in a general state of disrepair; it was cold and drafty in the winter and overbearingly hot in the summer.

  As a matter of fact the court itself was closed after having been condemned due to asbestos issues, which was why the Middlesex Superior Court had temporarily moved its operations to Woburn. However, for some reason the Commonwealth of Massachusetts had decided not to close down the jail, and yet the decision was not so inexplicable to Gleason. The obvious reason, as he knew full well, came down to money. Without spending a small fortune, the State had no place else to put all these people, and the quandary had the prisoners overflowing with animosity; it was a dangerous situation which had the potential to lead to a riotous revolt, and everybody in the prison administration knew it.

  Never mind the prisoners; Gleason himself wasn’t too happy about having to go into a facility where he was breathing in unseen poison, and in fact, he was part of a committee of lawyers who were planning to sue the State on behalf of the prisoners.

  “If this place isn’t fit for court personnel, then they shouldn’t allow prisoners to be housed there,” Gleason would tell anyone who would listen, particularly members of the media.

  Meanwhile Breslin, who had been in jail for just under a year at this point, wasn’t adjusting well to his confinement.

  “They put us in these cramp conditions in a condemned building, and we haven’t even been found guilty yet. I might as well just hang myself now and get it over with,” griped Breslin half-jokingly to one of his prison-mates after only a few days of incarceration.

  Breslin was a tough guy who could usually adapt to most situations, but this was taking some getting used to; after all he had never even been arrested before, never mind spending a night in jail.

  Breslin could survive the days, but the nights had been tough, what with the countless prisoners moaning and groaning, and sneezing and snoring, and tossing and turning, and talking in their sleep. But the worst offenders were the ones with who were going through drug and alcohol withdrawals (and to be more specific, it was the hair-raising screams that accompanied their affliction which really set him on edge). Breslin sometimes felt as if he was in an insane asylum, not a jail, and he was learning to live with a serious lack of sleep.

  “R. J. nice to see you,” intoned Catino as Gleason entered the meeting room, and the two old colleagues exchanged a warm handshake and the usual “how’s the family?” chitchat before getting down to business.

  “This is my…that is to say…your client, John Breslin,” announced Catino as Breslin and Gleason now took turns shaking hands.

  “Mr. Gleason you gotta get me out of this place. I swear I’m gonna go crazy,” exclaimed Breslin who was suddenly close to tears.

  “Now Mr. Breslin the first thing I stress to all of my clients is patience. It’s probably going to take at least another year before we even get to trial, and then if things don’t go well it could take a few more years of appeals,” informed Gleason as he looked Breslin directly in the eyes.

  “What do you mean if things don’t go well? My family’s paying you a small fortune,” cried Breslin.

  “Mr. Breslin, if there is one thing I learned a long time ago, it’s that there are no guarantees when it comes to criminal trials. You just never know how a jury is going to react. The only thing that I can assure you of is that I will defend you to the best of my abilities, and that I will be an advocate on your behalf for as long as you are incarcerated, whether its ten years or life…I’ll be there for you. My relationship with my clients doesn’t end after the trial is over. It only ends when you are a free
man,” confidently stated Gleason, and unwittingly the words “free man” calmed Breslin down and gave him just the slightest bit of hope. And yet, although Gleason didn’t dare say it, in his experience, all too often, many of his clients only became free men when they were removed from prison in a coffin.

  “The only thing I ask of you is that you tell me the truth, and do whatever I tell you to do. And one thing I advise to all of my clients is that when we’re in court, always look straight ahead, and don’t say a word. Don’t stare at the jury. Don’t look out into the audience. Don’t try to intimidate the witnesses. Just let me take care of that. After all that’s my job…the job which, as you so eloquently stated, you are paying me a small fortune to do, so let me do it,” instructed Gleason with a raised voice and a slight smile. He seemed to be trying to add a bit of humor to an otherwise humorless situation, but Breslin wasn’t much in the mood for laughter.

  “Now Mr. Breslin I want you to tell me the whole story, and don’t tell any lies. Don’t leave out even the slightest detail or I’ll know it, and it will affect my ability to represent you,” forcefully explained Gleason, but force wasn’t really necessary because in John Breslin he had an obedient and willing client.

  Breslin gladly complied with his new attorney’s request…and the tale he told saddened Gleason. Even after all of the senseless violence he had been exposed to over the years, he was still surprised and shocked by the tragedies that befall everyday people.

  Of course due to the nature of client/attorney privileges, the content of Mr. Breslin’s narrative cannot be provided at this time, but you the dear reader can rest assured that you will be given every opportunity to come to your own conclusions. However, unlike you, Mr. Newlan and the divergent troupe of good soldiers who make up our esteemed jury will have to live with their decision...for the rest of their lives.