Chapter 29 – Rearview Mirror (He Always Looked Back)
Friday morning June 6, 2008 – 6:05 AM
After a night spent alternating between the bedroom and the living room, Frank Newlan was back on the sofa where he lay sprawled out in a fetal position, suffering from a hellacious hangover.
By the time Newlan made it home from his memorable night at O’Toole’s Tavern and Grill and dragged his aching body off to bed, it was after 2 o’clock in the morning, so he realized full well that he was going to be in for a long day ahead of him come morning.
It’s funny how when we are out on the town, overindulging ourselves, we tend not to consider the repercussions until the next day when we vow, “never again,” and right about this time, Newlan was having a “never again” moment for what must have been around the thousandth time in his life.
Newlan should have been exhausted, but for some reason he couldn’t sleep, and after tossing and turning in bed for a couple of hours, he decided to try the sofa, which didn’t turn out to make a significant difference, so he just lay there with the TV on mute, wide-eyed but blind to the world, like a deer caught in the headlights.
Whether Newlan’s sleeplessness was due to his massive headache, or whether it was due to the fact that his body felt as if it had been through a 15 round boxing match, or whether it was due to the adrenaline rush from the barroom brawl, or whether it was due to the fact that the Breslin trial weighed heavily on his mind, we can’t be quite sure, but most likely it was a combination of all these things.
But whatever the reason for his insomnia, Newlan grasped the fact that he’d better get some shut-eye soon, even if it was only for an hour or two. Otherwise, he would end up having no choice but to call in sick for jury duty, or worse, he might end up passing out in his comfortable swivel chair, right there in the jury box for all the world to see. And when it came right down to it, he wasn’t sure which of the two scenarios frightened him more, and he sure as hell didn’t want to find out.
At some point in the middle of the night, Newlan decided to try a few more Advil in hopes that 600 more milligrams of the analgesic might help his pounding headache. He had already taken three tablets as soon as he got home, but he figured a few more couldn’t do him any harm. He recalled that when he visited Dr. Clay for a bout of acute back spasms last year, the good doctor prescribed three Advil every six hours, while explaining; “You’re a big boy…your body should be able to handle it without a problem” (of course at the time, Newlan was hoping for something a bit stronger, but that’s a story for another day).
In any event, as Newlan stumbled around in the darkness on his way to the medicine cabinet, he stubbed his toe on the corner of the coffee table which left him hopping around on one foot…writhing in pain and screaming like a madman.
“If I keep this up, I’m gonna wake up the entire complex…never mind Saeed,” groaned Newlan as he limped into the master bathroom and turned on the light. But as luck would have it, the sudden brightness intensified his headache, leaving him feeling nauseous and wobbly, and as is often the case when these types of symptoms occur, projectile vomiting wasn’t too far behind.
Newlan felt better afterwards. He hadn’t eaten much, so his puke was mostly dry-heaves, and for whatever reason, the regurgitating tightness in his stomach had a sobering effect on him.
And moreover, when Newlan finally arose from worshiping the porcelain god and opened up the medicine cabinet, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he was startled by just how awful he really looked. His face was pale, and the bags under his bloodshot eyes were showing signs of a serious lack of sleep, and to top it all off he was adorned with a purple welt on the outer corner of his left eyebrow.
After observing the damage, Newlan got up-close and personal with the mirror and examined himself for further injuries. He vaguely recalled taking a glancing blow to the face during the fight, but for the most part, he had emerged unscathed, and it appeared as if the bruise, though it was rather puffy, would not develop into a full-blown shiner.
Of course, that didn’t stop Newlan from moaning; “Man, you can’t make this shit up…I wonder if it would be OK for me to wear sunglasses in court today?”
And then he bitterly answered his own question; “probably not.”
Newlan down the Advil with a splash of tap water and he decided to try the bed again, this time spread-eagle, staring at the ceiling.
And almost immediately upon lying down, the bed began spinning like a whirling dervish. But this time, rather than sending him running back to the bathroom, heaving, the waves of dizziness had a tranquilizing effect on him instead, and he soon fell into an uneasy slumber; the type of slumber which was known to induced his most vivid dreams.
Newlan felt his body hovering weightlessly over the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave. in Newton, Massachusetts, and he could clearly see Fred Miller’s blue 1999 Nissan Maxima with the “Question Authority” bumper sticker parked in the garage. He could clearly see a man sitting lifelessly in the car. But as his shapeless build floated nearer to the vehicle, he could also see that the man was still alive, talking on his cell phone.
Newlan, who assumed that the man was Fred Miller, urgently wanted to scream, “Get out Fred…run…run for your life…run while you still can.” But it was one of those dreams where you open your mouth to speak and no words come out.
And then out of nowhere, Newlan saw a shadowy silhouette step out from the darkness. He could clearly see the ghostly figure open the door to the car and fire a single gunshot into Fred Miller’s face. But it was one of those dreams where he was rendered powerless to stop the assailant.
It was also one of those dreams where his vision was magnified, which allowed him to watch the scene play out in slow motion. He could clearly see the bullet ploddingly smash into Fred Miller’s cheekbone. He could clearly see the backlash of blood-spatter, as it hung suspended in mid-air before leaving its indelible mark. He could clearly see the tracer as it exited Miller’s neck. And he could clearly follow the trajectory of the deadly miniature missile as it came to rest in the passenger side door of Miller’s automobile.
Newlan was panicked, but he was also determined to apprehend the murderer, and as such, he made his way to where he expected the red car to be parked. And sure enough, there it was. But as he approached to the scene of the crime, he saw that the vehicle was not a Ford Taurus. As he got closer to the parking spot opposite Fred Miller’s car, he observed that the automobile in question was not a small red car, but it was in fact his very own mid-sized 1995 red Mercury Mystique 4 door sedan.
It couldn’t possibly be his car, but there it was. There was no mistaking it. It’s every detail matched his car to a T, right down to the dinged-up front bumper; and regardless of whether he was dreaming on not, this latest development had Newlan’s instincts telling him to flee. Get the hell out of there as fast as his Mercury could carry him. And then, as if by some sort of magical spell, with the blink of an eye he was telepathically transported into the driver’s seat of his cozy, familiar vehicle.
Newlan saw himself sitting in his red Mercury, and he saw himself locking the door, and he saw himself starting the engine…when suddenly, a wave of fear engulfed him.
Newlan’s face contorted into a horrified state of disbelief as the misty form of the shady, faceless murderer began to grow like an evil seed to his right in the passenger’s seat. And when the mirage had reached its full gestation, it slowly crooked its neck in his direction and calmly hissed; “Just drive and don’t look back. Never look back.”
But Newlan couldn’t help himself. He had to look back. He always looked back. He could never leave the past behind him. He could never just let it go as it slowly vanished into the rearview mirror of his life. He had to look back. He always looked back…and so, that’s just what he did.
And much to Newlan’s surprise, what he saw reflected in the rearview
mirror of his past was his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, looking for all the world like a lost child as she sat there in the back seat of his car, staring yearningly out the side window, watching hopelessly as some long-forgotten distant memory came back to life again right before her very eyes.
However, for the life of him, what Newlan didn’t see was John Breslin seated next to Plante. What he didn’t see until it was almost too late was the gun that Breslin had forcefully placed against the back of his head; the same gun that had just ended Fred Miller’s life.
And although Newlan may not have been able to see the gun, he could still feel it. He could feel the icy-hot barrel pressed up against his neck, still smoking from the havoc that it had just wreaked on Fred Miller’s face. And furthermore, he may not have been able to see Breslin in his vision, but somehow he understood that it was him. Somehow he could hear Breslin’s voice before he even spoke a word. He could hear the sinister voice declaring, “You’re next Newlan,” as the gun clicked in his ear…and a split second later his head was filled with the ringing of an infernal gong, echoing from the depths of Hell.
Beep, beep, beep… beep, beep, beep… beep, beep, beep…tolled the bell; but auspiciously for Newlan, Breslin never did get to pull the trigger; once again his apparition was foiled; this time by the din of his alarm clock as it saved the day when it woke him up just in the nick of time.
It was a rare occurrence for Newlan’s internal clock to betray him, but given his inebriated condition, it was understandable why this would be one of those moments.
In Newlan’s mind, an occasion such as this was precisely the reason why he always made it a routine to turn on his alarm clock every night before going to bed in the first place.
For in Newlan’s twisted psyche, routines became habits, and habits became rituals, and rituals became acts of faith, and blind faith kept him forging ahead day after day, in hopes that tomorrow would be his day; the day when his wildest dreams would finally come true.
You see, for better or for worse, Newlan was a stubborn man who did things his way come hell or high water. He was a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly, even though, in many respects he was a fool in his own right. He was a man who could find the good in just about every person he had ever come across. But conversely, the dark side that resides deep within us all tended to leave him leery of his fellow man, which, in turn, led him to never totally trust anyone. He was a man who believed equally in the indefatigable bravery of the human spirit as well as the thin white line that separates man from beast. He was a man who genuinely cared about the many women in his life, and yet at the same time, perhaps, in the truest sense of the word, he loved no one.
In short, Newlan was a confused and lonely man who was burdened with too much pride to ever let anyone get close enough to see how much he was hurting inside. He was a man who carried around too much baggage to ever allow anyone to unearth the dirt that buried his heart in a suffocating box. He was a man who had suffered too much disappointment to ever let anyone penetrate his phantasmal dreams.
It has been said by many a prophet that if you die in your dreams, then you will also die in real life as well, and you will never wake up again. And from the depths of his soul, Newlan believed this to be true. In fact, he was sure it was true based on personal experience.
Ever since he was a kid, Newlan had been haunted by dreams that could have easily spelled his demise. But every single time, he survived unscathed.
Every single time, he always survived those weightless dreams of falling endlessly off a cliff the size of the Grand Canyon.
Every single time, he always survived those horrible dreams of being attacked by a home invader while he just stood there paralyzed, frozen with fear, and like tonight, unable to even speak.
Every single time, he always survived those panic attacks that were caused by a train rushing headlong into his car as it sat, stuck helplessly, on the railroad tracks.
Every single time he thought he was doomed; he woke up just before the darkness overtook him.
Every single time, he woke up, just before he hit the ground.
Every single time, he woke up, just before his attacker’s slimy grip caught hold of him.
Every single time, he woke up, just before the train smashed his car into smithereens.
But tonight, tonight had been a close call. Tonight he did not wake up. Tonight, as fate would have it, the hand of God intervened and woke him up when he couldn’t do it on his own.
And yet tonight found Newlan wondering whether his time was coming due.
Tonight found Newlan questioning his faith.
Tonight found Newlan wondering whether he even wanted to wake up from his utopian world of heroes and villains.
Tonight found Newlan wondering whether he should even bother setting his alarm clock ever again.
“The problem with alarm clocks,” the pseudo-intellectual Newlan once explained in a college philosophy class, “is that they shock us back into the world of reality. Whereas the internal clock allows us to gradually depart from our own personal fantasy land; a land from which, after all, we never really wanted to leave in the first place.”
But unfortunately for Newlan, on this fine morning, he was shocked back into reality with a force so devastating that he woke up tangled between his sheets, fighting an imaginary foe, repeatedly shouting, “I have to look back, I always look back.”
Not surprisingly, the commotion was too much for Saeed Kahn, who began pounding on his side of the wall. And thankfully for Newlan, Kahn’s Morse Coded complaint brought him back to his senses. But as he sat at the edge of his bed with his aching head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, he whispered to himself, “I have to look back, I always look back,” and it was only then that the reality of his past failures hit home.
When the abject accursedness of the lingering words “I have to look back, I always look back” suddenly registered in Newlan’s mind, he lost all control, and with his finger removed from the dike, he began to cry the cold harsh tears…of hopeless despair.
…
Dear reader, despite Frank Newlan’s penchant for the dramatic and his insistence that he possessed some sort of psychic power, there was no way he could have possibly known of the unforeseen turn his life was about to take. And despite his latest dream which shook him to his core, there was no way he could have ever known that he might soon be reunited with the only woman he ever loved.
Or maybe, just maybe, he could know…maybe, just maybe, he did know…but how?
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 38