From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 30 – The Red Car

  Friday morning June 6, 2008 – 7:45 AM

  As Frank Newlan sat stalled in traffic, helplessly trapped in a sea of gridlock, he reclined the driver’s seat of his red Mercury Mystique ever so slightly and leaned back against the headrest for a brief respite. He figured that if he had to be stuck on the motionless Interstate, then he might as well use the idle time to rest his weary eyes. And as he inched his way towards the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, he repeatedly reminded himself that he was reluctantly willing (if not particularly ready-and-able) to do his civic duty as a member of the jury in the John Breslin murder trial.

  It took three more Advil, two cups of coffee, and one stick of reefer, but Newlan’s hangover had finally subsided to the point where he could at least blink his eyes without becoming disoriented and falling over in a heap.

  The ability to sit and listen shouldn’t have been too much for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to ask of its jurors, and yet, for someone in Newlan’s condition, the mastery of these basic skills required an essential set of prerequisites, such as the aforementioned narcotic cocktail.

  “Ah, the wonders of weed,” exclaimed Newlan as he approached the courthouse. He would often expound upon “the underrated medical properties of marijuana” to anyone who’d listen, and he even went so far as once lecturing Doctor Clay thusly on the matter; “In all my years of drinking, nothing, I repeat nothing, has ever cured a hangover better than a few hits of a joint. I’m telling you…you should do some research on the subject. Maybe write a paper in the Journal of Medicine…you never know, it might make you famous…and by the way caffeine’s not bad either.”

  Unlike some people, Newlan could at least laugh at himself, which is what he did now as he recalled the look on Doctor Clay’s face when he expressed his “medical marijuana” hypothesis, lo those many years ago.

  “No wonder he thinks I’m crazy,” acknowledged Newlan, half out loud to himself, as he yawned heavily while at the same time a stabbing pang of hunger came over him.

  Newlan growling tummy had informed him that he was famished from the minute he crawled out of bed, but he wasn’t sure whether his unsettled stomach would be able to hold anything down, so he skipped breakfast, lest he interrupt the court proceedings by tossing his cookies. Instead he took an extra long shower which also helped him on his road to recovery; and he needed that little extra bounce in his step earlier this morning when he somehow managed to strategically avoid the wrath of Saeed Kahn.

  Kahn had a very hot temper, as well as a short fuse, which could be lit by, “oh I don’t know, waking him up out of a sound sleep in the middle of the night,” grumbled Newlan while he waited for another light to turn green. But after he cooled off, Kahn would usually go back to being his mild-mannered self again, and if not then “well, then he can go fuck himself,” asserted Newlan as his mind replayed the successful attempt at tiptoeing unnoticed, past the distracted doorman earlier this morning.

  Between the stabs of hunger and the lack of sleep, Newlan was so drained that he didn’t even have the strength to get stressed out over the inevitable traffic jam which he found himself stuck in. And so he just sat there and hunkered down as he patiently provided backing vocal accompaniment to the title track of the Jimmy Buffett CD “Son of a Son of a Sailor” which he had brought along with him for the ride.

  The song’s tale of a reefer-smuggling mariner, along with last night’s adventure, made Newlan nostalgic for the good old days when he and his friends would go out partying and chasing women just about every night of the week…and if push came to shove, brawling their way out of trouble.

  “Man I miss those days, but thank God we don’t do that every night anymore. Otherwise we’d probably all be dead by now,” mused Newlan as he became pensive regarding the direction his life was headed. And with that in mind, he began to reflect on his latest dream.

  “What could it mean?” wondered Newlan as he struggled to comprehend the puzzle of his inner mind. “I’m the one who thinks Breslin’s innocent, so why is he pointing the gun at me? Why am I next?”

  “Hmmm, maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Maybe Jimmy Leach was right. Maybe Breslin is as guilty as DA Lyons says he is. No, I gotta let it play out. I’m not gonna make a rush to judgment like the rest of them,” resolved Newlan. But the more he thought about the situation, and the more the details of his dream came back to him, the more confused he became.

  “But then why was my car there? And why was Marianne there? And why is she still invading my dreams after all these years?”

  Luckily for Newlan, he was stuck in traffic while he was thinking all of these crazy thoughts, for who knows what would have happened if had gone into one of his infamous funks while he was barreling down the highway at 75 miles per hour.

  “Sure I was obsessed with her, but that was years ago,” admitted Newlan as he glanced into his rearview mirror at the mile-long line of cars stretched out behind him. The truth was, he had come as close as humanly possible to having a total nervous breakdown over Marianne Plante without ever actually going insane. But as tormented as he may have been, he never once stalked her or harassed her in any way. No, his only problem was that he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  Newlan didn’t realize it just yet, but he would soon become fixated on the Breslin trial in much the same manner that he had once become captivated by his high school sweetheart. Whether this was a character flaw on Newlan’s part, or perhaps just a normal reaction given the circumstances he was facing, is up for debate. But in his defense, he would not be the only juror who would become haunted by the trial, much like the fact that he was not the only man who had ever been bewitched by the unsolvable mystery that was Marianne Plante.

  “Sure I still think about her once in a while…but is that really so bad? And sure I still have an occasional dream about her…but never anything this weird?”

  And then, unexpectedly, it hit him; it hit him like a branch falling from a tree, perhaps the most important lesson of the entire dream; “I have to look back, I always look back.”

  With the figurative rearview mirror of his life finally coming into focus, Newlan came to an unmistakable conclusion; “I’m still not over her. Even after all these years…I’m still not over her.”

  The sudden realization rocked Newlan from his crapulent malaise, and somewhere deep within his soul, he ached inside; an ache so painful, he didn’t know if it could ever be healed; an angst so deep that it caused him to breakdown until he was on the verge of tears again; an agony so prolonged that it got him to wondering how much longer he could survive this torturous life.

  Newlan pounded his fists on the steering wheel, accidentally triggering the horn, which elicited the middle finger from the driver of the car in front of him. But wisely, he ignored the road-raged filled driver. More important to him was the fact that the physical act of punching a solid object somehow provided a strange but soothing therapeutic relief.

  “I need to go down to the condo exercise room and swat at the punching bags once in a while,” resolved Newlan. “It’s better than paying a hundred bucks an hour for a shrink.”

  If nothing else Frank Newlan was a resilient character, and by the time the Jimmy Buffett CD had segued into his carnivorous hit song, extolling the virtues of “Cheeseburgers In Paradise”, he had written off his latest nightmare as a byproduct of having had too much to drink, and he did his best to put the frightening fantasy out of his mind.

  “All of a sudden I feel like I could eat a horse,” mumbled Newlan as he anticipated filling out his free lunch order, courtesy of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

  And so with his mental detour regarding Marianne Plante rerouted, Newlan arrived at the courthouse without incident; it seems he was already becoming quite familiar with the routine of the police checkpoint, the satellite trucks, and the juror parking lot; just as he had become an exper
t at covering up the tracks of his tears.

  Much like yesterday, the early bird Newlan was the first juror to arrive, so he kicked back and relaxed while guzzling down ice-cold Poland Springs Water by the bucketful in a desperate attempt to quench his alcohol-induced thirst.

  Patty the amicable senior citizen, who Newlan was already quite fond of, was the next to juror to arrive, and he greeted her warmly while at the same time he tried to remember her name. Luckily it came to him before he misspoke, but just the same he was bewildered by the cautious stare she was sending his way.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

  “No,” replied a distressed Patty, “but you look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

  “Actually, I have been,” confessed Newlan with a sad smile. And when that response didn’t do the trick to remove the glint of concern from Patty’s face, he added, “Sorry, I had a rough night out at the club last night…and this trial isn’t helping matters. And by the way, do I really look that bad?”

  “To be honest Frank, you look horrible. Do you want me to see if I can get you some ice for that contusion,” offered the caring Patty.

  “Oh no I’m fine…but thanks anyway,” replied Newlan while in the back of his mind he thought, “oh sure she knows my name, but I barely remembered hers…make me feel even worse than I already do why don’t you.”

  “Are you telling me that the trial has something to do with the way you look?” asked a horrified Patty.

  “The bruise is totally unrelated…but the baggy, bloodshot eyes…well that’s another story. But to be honest with you, I can’t get the case off my mind, and I know for a fact that it’s gonna drive me crazy…and when I have something on my mind, I can’t sleep…and when I can’t sleep you get this,” explained Newlan as he pointed to his noggin and made an exaggerated, demented facial expression.

  “If I may give you some motherly advice…you need to go home tonight, have a nice hot cup of tea, and put yourself to bed. But I know what you mean about the trial…it’s been weighing heavily on my mind as well,” advised Patty, as her maternal instincts kicked in.

  “I think that’s the best advice I’ve gotten in a long, long time,” replied Newlan as his melancholic simper magically turned into warm smile.

  “If nothing else…I really like this one. She’s genuinely nurturing, and it’s comforting to know that there are still people like this left in the world,” silently pondered Newlan.

  As Newlan and Patty commiserated, slowly but surely, the rest of the jurors reported for duty, and they all quietly conversed about nothing in particular while they patiently waited for their escort to arrive.

  This time however, it was the elderly court officer, the same fellow who had been wandering in and out of the courtroom for the last two days, who would be the one in charge of shepherding them up to their 6th floor deliberation room.

  “We ready to go upstairs? I’m Donny by the way.”

  Donny, who was now only three months and counting away from retirement, had apparently already begun to check out a long time ago. And Newlan suspected as much, considering the fact that he would disappear for long stretches of time during the course of the day, and no one seemed to mind in the least.

  “He’s an old timer…they probably just let him do whatever he pleases…or maybe he has some top secret assignment. Either way, he seems like a good guy,” deduced Newlan, who was in a sentimental mood; possibly due to the glowing delirium which was induced by his “hangover cure”, or maybe, just maybe, some of Patty’s goodwill had rubbed off on him.

  In any event, once all of the jurors had gotten their acts together, Donny led them through the maze of corridors and onto the waiting elevator…and up they went to their temporary home-away-from-home.

  In an effort to augment their lunch menus, Jane produced a large bag from her even larger purse, which contained a box packed with two dozen donuts. And not to be outdone, Yong extracted a huge bag of chocolate candies (the kind you’d purchase in one of those wholesale warehouse outlet stores) out of her bag, and everyone dug in as if they were all one big happy family.

  Newlan was famished since he hadn’t had nary a bite to eat in the last 24 hour, and on top of that, the reefer munchies were also kicking in, so he devoured his share of donuts, and furthermore, he thanked Jane profusely for her thoughtfulness.

  “Oh you’re welcome,” pleasantly replied Jane, and much to his surprise, Newlan could have sworn that he caught the glitter of a twinkle in her eyes.

  “They’re all good people,” decided Newlan. “Why am I so suspicious of everyone’s motives? I’m such an asshole. They don’t want to be here any more than I do. They’re just doing their civic duty…only they’re not bitching about it every 10 minutes. I could probably learn something from each and every one of my fellow jurors.”

  Could it have been possible that Newlan’s dream was affecting his outlook on life in a positive way, and more importantly could it last? Newlan was wondering the same thing himself, but for now even he didn’t know the answer.

  Newlan really did see the good in people, but he just tended to keep his guard up until he became more comfortable with unfamiliar people such as his new colleagues. However, once he got past that jumping-off point, you couldn’t meet a nicer person. In time, he might even become friendly with some of the jurors, but for now they were earning each other’s respect, and that was a good enough start as far as he was concerned.

  But regardless of Newlan’s leery outlook on life, the jurors chocolate-and-donut sugar-rush party lingered on until, after the usual delays, Billy burst into the room and grunted; “line ‘em up…show time’s in 5 minute, and I got good news for you, we’re only going until one o’clock today.”

  Newlan was thrilled to hear that they would be let out early, and he spontaneously broadcast as much.

  “Thank God! Now maybe I can finally go home and get some rest tonight.”

  This absentminded declaration set Newlan off on a contemplative tangent which included the Grateful Dead song “Friend of the Devil” wandering into his mind, and he proceeded to softly hum the clever anti-sermon to himself in an effort to muster up the motivation and strength to get him through the rest of the day.

  After Billy left the room, the jurors began milling about, not necessarily in numerical seating order, but close enough to their spot in the line so that they could jump back into place when it came time to march into the courtroom.

  But as it turned out, they were only a couple of minutes into their loitering assemblage, huddled in their makeshift formation, when without warning, Billy barged opened the door again, similar to the manner in which Kramer from the old Seinfeld TV sitcom might make an unannounced entrance into Jerry’s apartment, and he exclaimed, “We’re ready to roll.”

  Unfortunately however, Linda, the placid juror in seat number 1, was standing a shade too close to the doorsill when Billy stormed in, and the mahogany door hit her squarely in the forehead, almost knocking her over.

  Luckily, Linda wasn’t hurt by the unintended sneak attack. But nevertheless, Ron the banker in seat number 11 jokingly shouted out in a mock police radio voice; “juror down.”

  This momentary bout of silliness elicited the jurors to burst out laughing, and with the doors to the courtroom being open, the gathered throng inside of courtroom 630 couldn’t help but to hear their inexplicably jovial mood.

  The reaction from the gallery was decidedly mixed, ranging from broad smiles, all the way down to stone-cold silence, and the mood appeared to fall along party lines; specifically, the Breslin camp found the happy-go-lucky jurors to be quite amusing, while the late Fred Miller’s extended group of family and friends were not seeing the humor in the situation at all.

  And while all of these machinations were taking place, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason leaned over to his client and whispered, “A happy jury never convicts,” and apparently even the d
efendant, John Breslin, forced a wisp of a smile onto his face.

  However, unless one of Newlan’s colleagues brought the specific details regarding an incident such as this to his attention during one of their break-time chats, he had no idea of who was doing what in the courtroom, seeing as how he was steadfast in sticking to his routine of keeping his eyes peeled to the floor until he got to his seat in the jury box.

  And of course, it should come as no surprise that over at the district attorney’s table, Elaina Lyons was already wearing her top-of-the-line scowl, which she usually reserved for more dramatic moments, even though the morning’s session hadn’t even commenced yet.

  Nevertheless once the jurors’ giggles had subsided and everyone was settled down, Brandon did his usher routine and made his formal speech before turning it over to Judge Gershwin for the official “court is in session” announcement.

  “Good morning to our wonderful jurors,” gushed Judge Gershwin, and as expected she then queried the jurors as to whether any of them had discussed the case. No one responded in the affirmative, but Newlan wondered whether he could go to jail for lying.

  “They’ll never fuckin’ take me alive,” he swore to himself, and he smiled at his own joke.

  Newlan was a man who could always entertain himself with his clever imagination. He could get lost in a book; or a movie; or a CD; or his guitar; or even in his thoughts; which was one of the many reasons why the independence and solitude of living alone agreed with him; whereas he was acquainted with more than a few needy people who couldn’t stand to be by themselves, alone in a room, for more than two seconds.

  “She must not like the sight of her own skin…very sad,” was Newlan’s stock observation whenever he crossed paths with a potential dating partner who possessed this particular “clingy” personality trait.

  “All right then…let’s begin,” proclaimed Judge Gershwin, which brought Newlan back out of the clouds of his thoughts, and with pencil and paper in hand, he was ready to go. Amazingly enough, despite having endured a minor emotional breakdown and only managing two hours of nightmare-filled sleep at the most, he was apparently none the worse for wear.

  The day’s session turned out to be fairly uneventful and at times maybe even bordering on the tedious side. Twelve more employees or customers who patronized the office building at 435 Commonwealth Ave in Newton, including the take-charge dentist Dr. Barnett, and the obnoxious Mona Barron, VP of Sales at the Barron Insurance Agency (and the sister of owner Steve Barron) testified as to their comings and goings on Friday January 13th, 2006. But most of them had nothing much new to add to what had already been established.

  Even so, a handful of the witnesses were quite interesting and colorful, such as the aforementioned Mona Barron who seemed to think that it was beneath her to have to testify at a murder trial; and her air of superiority was evident as she recounted parking her Lexus SUV in the garage on the morning of the murder.

  Unfortunately for DA Lyons, after hours of testimony, the only relevant fact that she had been able to establish thus far was that Fred Miller was apparently very well-liked by his fellow employees; the same employees who found him dead in his car, with a bullet-hole protruding from his head.

  “If I have to listen to one more person tell us that they arrived at work between 7:30 and 8 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006 and parked their car in the garage, only to admit that they didn’t notice anything unusual going on, I’m gonna lose my mind. Luckily we only have to put up with a half day of this,” thought the hung-over Newlan as the morning dragged on and on.

  Gleason seemed to be fixated on the fact that just about every person who went down to the garage to check out the situation apparently laid their grubby hands all over Fred Miller’s automobile, and it was obvious to Newlan that the stickler in Gleason was somehow going to use the unidentified fingerprints as evidence of sloppy police work in his defense of John Breslin.

  However, just as they approached the end of the day’s proceedings, DA Lyons finally produced a couple of prosecution witnesses who had a few morsels of new information to offer. But strangely enough, the scraps of detail that were being presented by the deponents seemed to bolster the defense more than they helped the prosecution, or at least they did as far as Frank Newlan was concerned.

  One of those witnesses was a gentleman by the name of James Remy who also worked for the Barron Insurance Agency. He arrived to work at around 7:40 on the morning of January 13th, 2006, and he testified that he too observed an unoccupied red car in the garage which he described as, “a foreign car…possibly a Honda or a Toyota.”

  Gleason made sure to have Remy repeat the description of the vehicle under cross-examination, and he also asked; “Did you give the police a description of the car?”

  “Yes sir I did,” replied Remy which had Newlan wondering whether DA Lyons would even be able to prove that the enigmatic red car belonged to Sammy Fox, never mind trying to successfully pin the murder of Fred Miller on him. After all, he, himself, owned a red automobile that vaguely fit the description of the alleged getaway car.

  The last witness of the day was yet another employee of the Barron Insurance Agency, Diane Mason, and she also took the stand sporting a slightly different twist to her “red car” testimony.

  After getting the formalities out of the way, DA Lyons asked; “Ms. Mason when you left work on the evening of January 12th, 2006 did something catch your attention?”

  “Yes, there was a red car parked next to my car in the garage…and the reason that this car stuck out in my mind was because it was parked very close to me, which made it difficult for me to open the driver’s side door of my car,” explicitly explained Mason without the need of prompting from DA Lyons.

  “Was there anything unusual about the red car?” continued Lyons.

  “Yes, the paint on front bumper was noticeably scratched, and the bumper had a dent in it as well. And actually, I had seen the same car parked in the garage a couple of times before, during the course of that week,” replied Mason in an enlightening tone.

  “No further questions your honor,” announced Lyons.

  “Well, maybe Lyons will eventually pin the red car on Fox after all…or maybe this witness was describing my car again…no wonder I’m having these damned nightmares. Man, you can’t make this shit up,” groused a sardonic Newlan…but then he promptly refocused, and scribbled into his notepad:

  Lyons gets witness Dianne mason to insinuate that the red car is possibly staking out the garage.

  R. J. Gleason however, was having none of the unspoken theories that Lyons was attempting to inject into the jurors’ minds, and he wasted no time in going on the attack.

  “Ms. Mason, did you ever see anyone in this red car?”

  “No sir I didn’t,” replied Mason.

  “Not once?” added Gleason.

  “No sir, I never saw anyone in the red car,” reconfirmed Mason a bit testily.

  “Ms. Mason, do you remember where exactly the red car was parked, on the multiple occasions that you observed the vehicle in the garage? And if so, could you please point out the locations on this chart which represents the garage,” requested Gleason.

  “Oh my, I don’t remember the exact spots where the red car was parked,” replied Mason in a tone which seemed to insinuate that she was puzzled by Gleason’s line of questioning.

  “And Ms. Mason, is it fair to say that customers who have repeat appointments with the dentist or the chiropractor’s office might make use of the garage on multiple occasions during the course of the week?” wondered Gleason as patiently as ever.

  “I suppose that’s a fair assumption,” replied Mason. But she was quick to add; “however, that particular red car seemed out of place for some reason.”

  “Ms. Mason I didn’t ask you about the red car. I only wanted to establish whether a customer might have the need to make repeat visits to your office building during the cour
se of a week. Your honor I ask that the last portion of Ms. Mason’s comment be stricken from the record,” demanded a suddenly frustrated Gleason.

  “It may be stricken,” replied Judge Gershwin in a very unemotional tone.

  “Now Ms. Mason, do you remember the words you used to describe the red car to the police?”

  “I believe I describe it as a large red sedan, an older vehicle, possibly a Ford Taurus,” recalled Mason.

  Gleason shook his head in disbelief as he approached the witness stand and informed Mason of the last item on his agenda for the day.

  “Ms. Mason, I am going to provide you with a copy of your interview with the police, that was held on the afternoon of January 13th, 2006, and I ask that you read the highlighted portion of the text out loud to the jurors.”

  Mason slowly pulled the report up to within an inch of her eyeballs and squinted heavily as she confided, “I’m sorry Mr. Gleason, but I can’t make out a single word on this page without my reading glasses, which unfortunately I don’t have with me.”

  As one might expect, Gleason wasn’t going to let Mason off the hook that easily, and he turned towards Judge Gershwin with a request.

  “Your honor I ask that the witness be instructed to return to court on Monday morning with her reading glasses, so that we may complete her testimony.”

  But Judge Gershwin had other ideas.

  “Ms. Mason I keep a pair of reading glasses at my desk for just such an occasion. Please try these on and let me know if they make a difference.”

  “Yes, these will be fine,” replied Mason with smirk, and from there she proceeded to read from the report; “Ms. Mason described the vehicle as an older model, mid-sized four door sedan, with a square back and a boxy shape to it.”

  “Now Ms. Mason I’ve read your entire report, and never once do the police mention a Ford Taurus so WHY DID YOU MENTION A FORD TAURUS TODAY?” railed Gleason, raising his voice for emphasis.

  “Objection,” scowled DA Lyons.

  “Sustained” replied Judge Gershwin after a few seconds of thought.

  “I have no further questions your honor,” announced a visibly annoyed Gleason.

  By now it was almost 1 PM, and, as promised, Judge Gershwin adjourned the proceedings until “Monday morning bright and early at 8:45 AM.”

  “What was wrong with that last question…and why didn’t Gleason try again? Oh well, regardless…hooray for two days of freedom,” applauded Newlan. But before he called it a day he jotted down a few more notes into his pad:

  Dianne Mason – Defense Cross-Examination:

  Gleason successfully counters Lyons’ insinuation that the red car might be staking out the garage.

  Ford Taurus - rounded edges not boxy

  And who the hell is telling all these witnesses about the Ford Taurus??!!

  DAY TWO IN THE BOOKS – BRESLIN IS STILL INOCCENT AS FAR AS I’M CONCERNED (AND IT”S NOT EVEN CLOSE)…AND I SUSPECT THE POSSIBILITY OF FOUL PLAY TO BOOT!!!!